


A Room Up There (And You In It)

by thestarryknight



Series: A Room Up There (And You In It) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Early Bird, Ghosts, Ghosts to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Haunting, House magic, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Slow Burn, antiques, unusual careers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 59,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarryknight/pseuds/thestarryknight
Summary: When Preservationist Draco Malfoy was assigned to work on Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, he was excited to delve into the gorgeous Black family antiques.  His excitement quickly ended whensomethingin the House decided it did not like his presence one bit.  Featuring a grumpy antiques lover whomost certainly did not sign up for this, encounters with a vengeful apparition, and a healthy application of Christmas spirit.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: A Room Up There (And You In It) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084043
Comments: 391
Kudos: 263
Collections: 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2020





	1. First Impression

**Author's Note:**

> A few initial notes:
> 
> I've tagged this fic for a bit of haunting/ghostliness, and the first few chapters _do_ have a bit of fright to them. But if I'm an absolute chicken and managed through this, I hope you'll be okay too. 
> 
> This fic began as a small nugget of an idea and blossomed thanks to the incredible **[gryffindorhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffindorhearts/pseuds/gryffindorhearts)** , who heard my half-baked (and absolutely batty) idea and turned it into something worth writing. Without her thoughtful comments from the beginning to the end, this fic would... not have gotten past about 30 words and a heap of disjointed ideas. Thank you for so much tea and love throughout this fic, could not have made it without you <3
> 
> The wonderful [**onbeinganangel**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onbeinganangel) has beta'd, alpha'd, cheerleaded, and smacked this fic into a readable state. From pointing out my ridiculous inconsistencies to fixing my most egregious Americanisms to encouraging my "giant boner for antiques" to talking me down from the delete button, she should probably have my first-born cat. Or something.
> 
> Before I go to the last bit of fun stuff, I don't feel able to write HP fic without specifically stating in no uncertain terms: _Every single trans person out there is welcome in my Wizarding World. If you disagree, you can click right outta my fic._
> 
> Finally, this little fic is a member of the 25 Days of Drarry fest, so we'll have a new Christmas-y prompt every day from now until Christmas Day. I did the "Early Bird" version of this challenge, so I received all 25 images in October and have been writing frantically ever since. Keep your eyes out for them! Thank you very much to the wonderful 25 Days mods!
> 
> And, I'll be concluding each chapter with a little rec for one of the other 25-Days fics. I hope you'll check some of them out along the way <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco starts his newest project: begin preservation inventory at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: This is probably the most haunting-heavy chapter in the fic! Prepare to meet: The Apparition.

_[all I want is a room up there](https://genius.com/Frank-ohara-steps-annotated)  
and you in it  
and even the traffic halt so thick is a way  
for people to rub up against each other  
and when their surgical appliances lock  
they stay together  
for the rest of the day (what a day)_

\-- excerpt from Frank O’Hara, “Steps”

_Thursday, 16 November 2007_

On a bitter cold Thursday, Draco began his new assignment. He stepped up to the threshold of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He raised his eyes to the solemn door knocker, brassy and frowning at him with an upturned nose. The wood of the door was worn, as if someone had sent a barrage of nasty curses, as if they had tried to send their magic through it, but the old oak had not budged. Draco ran a pale hand down the deep grain in the wood and could swear he heard the whole house sigh at the touch.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker in the curtains on the first-floor. When he glanced back, the flimsy white fabric was as still as could be. Draco put his palm firmly against the door, letting his magic pour into the frame, ache into the ancient wood.

“Not to worry, old girl,” he said under his breath, “I’m here now.”

He let his hand drift down to the brass door handle and bent, tapping his wand against the bronze. The magical lock, deep inside the door, shuddered as it engaged with his wand. Draco heard a deep and steady groan of things shifting into their proper place, re-aligning to accommodate him. 

The door creaked open with an ache that seemed to echo through the entire body of the house. Draco brushed his fingertips over the front of the door as he pulled the key out and returned it to a deep inner pocket of his robes. 

“Shh, now,” he whispered to the door, breathing in the musty scent of a house that had been laid untouched for nearly five years. He left the door open for a moment, walking into the wide open foyer. It was dark, but not as dusty as he might expect. He glanced back towards the door, watching a few dust motes dance in the air. But this was not the dust of an untouched house.

“Is there a house-elf here?” he said in a raised voice, eyes flicking around to the end-table with a vase of long-wilted flowers drooping over. _Odd. All of it was odd._

“Show yourself,” he said again. “I am a Black, blood of this noble house and—”

An almost inaudible scuffling noise brought him pause. He stared around the atrium and darted towards the room beyond, trying to follow the noise. But whatever had initiated it was long gone and the room seemed as undisturbed as the atrium. A massive, ornate couch and two chairs sat around the fireplace in the parlor, a long wooden table between them. 

The wood of the table itself was finished beautifully, Draco thought, inching towards it, a fine dark walnut with inlays of mother-of-pearl. He squinted, making out the silver lines of a curled dragon carved into the center of the table in a fine metal tint, light as ice. The dragon stretched beneath his gaze, curling its sparkling tail out and shaking out his wings with a glint of gray and white. This was a piece of ancient Black family furniture, Draco was sure of it. The thrill of the research and study of this place ran through his bones and he found himself smiling.

But he was growing distracted. The inventory work would come, but for now he had to spend the day getting settled in, searching the house for any pests, and sending the obnoxious obligatory owl off to the Ministry. 

He returned to the atrium just in time to watch the front door blow shut with a loud _crack_. He jumped back, knocking into the dark wooden door frame of the parlor room. Wand drawn, he walked more carefully around the atrium, taking stock of the horribly awful troll’s leg umbrella stand (probably harmless), the vined red rug (in dire need of cleaning, but probably safe), and wooden receiving table (actually rather handsome). He ran the tip of his wand over the door frame, searching it for curses or anything untoward, but found nothing.

“Perhaps it is a bit drafty in here, hmm?” he murmured, running his hand over the frame. On the inside of the house, the same rich oak wood created a neat arch over the top of the door. Though it was dusty and unpolished, he could imagine its shine in its heyday, lit with the candles in sconces on either side as society folk came in from the cold. 

He cast a quick charm at the sconces, closing his eyes as the warm light flickered to life. It brought the black and white tile pattern to life on the floor, and he peered down at it, tracing the intricate back-and-forth interplay of colors.

Back in the parlor, he cast fire into the hearth, and sat for a moment on an ottoman in front of it. The warmth, though real and present, did not seem willing to settle in his bones, and he felt a shiver at his spine, as if he were being watched. _Paranoia_. He was sure of it. _Just the new-project jitters._ _It’s an old house, Order of the Phoenix or no Order, there may well be a boggart or two kicking around_.

He put his hands close to the fire, rubbing his fingers together to try to reinstate some feeling. Today, he would finish a walk through the house – keeping a close eye out for boggarts and a few other nasty household pests, and select a set of rooms to start with. Restoring old houses was grueling, exhausting work, and he knew better than to let himself get burnt out on the first day.

After a quick diagnostic spell to make sure the chimney was working properly, Draco left the fire crackling away happily to walk through the rest of the first floor. 

The kitchen was rather unexciting to him in terms of its furnishing, though he knew the Department would be very eager to have the great _table_ where the Order held all their meetings carefully preserved and cared for. In Draco’s opinion, the old thing was probably better used as scrap. Deep gouges ran the length of it, and the legs had been replaced three times over with different types of wood and different patterns on the leg. 

“Putting a proper ball-and-claw beside a straight leg like that, I swear to Merlin,” he muttered, frowning down at the offending thing. A mug of what had possibly been tea at some point had festered on the counter, a plate covered in dark, stale crumbs beside it. Draco crinkled his nose, vanishing the contents but leaving the two dishes in place. He could appreciate a bit of documentation for where things had been found and left behind, but he was not about to let the rot get any worse while he was under the same roof.

It was on the second floor that things began to turn south. Draco was standing outside of a locked bedroom door, trying out different (gentle, of course) unlocking charms. The standard ones had not succeeded, and his more creative ones were not proving successful either. He frowned at the stubborn door, twisting and tugging at the knob, until he yelped in surprise and jumped back.

The knob had turned a scalding hot. Draco bit back a grunt of pain as he cast a speedy healing charm on his palm, the skin still bright red where the metal had scaled him. 

“Merlin,” he muttered, glaring daggers at the door. “Fine, I won’t come in _today_ , but mind you, I won’t be putting up with any of this sass in a week or so.” He waggled a finger at the door, barely suppressing the urge to kick at the base of it. Leave it to his boss to send him on a snarky Gryffindor-ish house project for winter hols.

If it had only been the doorknob, Draco probably would have chalked it up to a bit too little sleep lately. But it wasn’t only the doorknob. It was also the door that slammed shut behind him when he walked into the room labelled _R.A.B._ And the deep and evil-feeling chill that settled over him like ice shards in the room on the third floor that smelled rather like dung. And the whoosh of dust that flew up into his face on the hallway on the third floor.

But what really sealed the whole affair was what happened in the fourth floor bathroom. Draco had stepped into it cautiously, wand raised, as he had ever since the rug ripped itself out from under him on the third floor landing. At first glance, it seemed perfectly fine. An ordinary bathroom with an ordinary (ugly, in Draco’s opinion) white clawfoot tub, with an old pull-to-flush toilet, and a giant gilt mirror over the stupidly lavish sink. 

It ought to have been a perfectly normal room. One quick glance and he was off to take a peek into the attic. The second he stepped foot into the bathroom, the door behind him swung shut with a sullen _thunk_. He whipped around, wand at the ready, searching for the ghoul or whatever it was that was here with him.

“Stop it,” he shouted (half-squeaked), staring around the room, eyes on the mirror. “Stop this, I mean it!” he demanded, only sounding slightly more frightening.

“I demand that you--” he stopped, staring at the tub. Water was pouring into it from the faucet which had most certainly not been turned on only a moment before. The sink too began to fill up. Draco could feel the heat of the water even from a meter away, could see the steam rising, could smell the sharp scent of water moving through the old brass pipes. The room quickly began to fill with steam and Draco plastered himself against the far wall, hands against the quickly-heating tiled wall.

“Stop it!” he cried, casting cooling charms to no avail. “Who are you?” he shouted into the room. 

He ran for the door, jiggling at the handle, and found it locked. _Alohomora_ did not work.

“ _Finite,”_ he cast at the tub. It paused for a moment, and restarted, even stronger and hotter than before. “ _Finite!”_ he shouted again, louder. Again, it paused and then restarted. 

“Please, I’m sorry--” Draco started, sweat soaking through his robes. The steam filled the room so completely he could barely see a centimeter in front of him and he reached out blindly “Please. I’ll go, I’ll go! I won’t come back here.”

His hands connected with the mirror for an instant, and he felt the cool glass beneath his hand, a brief respite. And then he saw a shape like a man in the mirror, hazy in the fog but as if he were made entirely of the condensation in the tiny bathroom. 

The cracking sound resonated through the bathroom in the same instant that Draco whipped around to try to see the figure that had been behind him. Shattered glass crinkled into the water in the sink, which was suddenly draining properly again. The tub too, water was pouring down the drain as if someone had pulled the plug. 

Draco caught his breath, panting against the sink, staring into the bits of broken mirror. He wasn’t sure what had caused the mirror to crack -- his own accidental magic, or whatever it was that had been floating there behind him, or the house’s own magic. He swallowed, turning to the door to the bathroom and reached for the handle, hand shaking. He had _not_ signed up for this utter shite, and he was not about to keep it up for anyone’s sake.

Thankfully, the handle was cool this time and the door turned as if it had never been locked at all. Draco glanced down as he turned the handle, and saw that there was no place for a key. Whatever had locked him in had done so quite intentionally. 

He cast a quick charm over himself to dispel the wetness down his spine where had nearly sweated through his shirt. The air was so much cooler outside the room, even as the heat had begun to dissipate. 

Draco stomped down the stairs, letting his frustration with the house be known. He refused even to let his fingers drift along the (frankly gorgeous) mahogany rail that followed the stairs with such _poise_ and _grace_ , oh Draco could just spend hours tracing the wood grain-- but the house certainly didn’t deserve such a treatment. 

At the first floor, he stepped over to the still-lit fireplace and paused for just a moment, reaching his fingers out to dry off the last bit of damp chill. The fire went out as if snuffed.

Draco huffed and got back to his feet. “Fine, fine, have it your way,” he muttered, stomping towards the door. “You’re going to sort this out, you know,” he told the stair rail, “Because you’re fooling yourself if you think I’ll be the last one to try to work on this shithole.”

The door, rather unkindly, smacked him in the back as he stepped out onto the doorstep. Draco launched forward, stepping quickly down the steps and nearly straight into a rather frumpy-faced Muggle woman. 

“Right,” he said, straightening the front of his long navy robes. The woman stared at him, open-mouthed and barely suppressing a laugh. “Carry on,” he grumbled at her, making a shooing motion with his free hand. 

He glanced back at Number Twelve, narrowing his eyes at the shifting curtain on the first floor. He could swear there was something moving there, _would_ swear it. Draco shuddered and pulled his cloak closer, stalking off in the other direction and leaving the frumpy woman frowning after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on over to my tumblr ([the-starryknight](https://the-starryknight.tumblr.com/)) if you'd like to chat funky furniture, our darling Draco, or anything else!
> 
> And I'll start off my little daily Christmas fic recs with one that isn't part of the fest, since we're all kicking off at different times today. The wonderful [bluefay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluefay) has written [_The Way We Wind_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27645061) a lovely tale of knitting, healing, soft kittens, and finding love.


	2. The Head Preservationist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter: Maison Bell, Head Preservationist extraordinaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: This chapter mentions a major character death. However, I will remind you that this fic is not tagged as MCD (for a reason), and it absolutely 100% has a happy ending. Come visit [my tumblr](https://the-starryknight.tumblr.com/) if you'd like more spoilers before proceeding!

_Friday, 17 November 2007_

Draco stormed into the Department of Magical Historical Places on Friday morning, throwing open the door to the Head Office with a thunderous expression. Head of the Conservation of Magical Historical Places Maison Bell did not look up, but gestured to the chunky open chair across her desk. Draco did not sit down.

Instead, he began to pace back and forth, across the length of the small office. He did not speak for a long moment, letting the _snick-snick_ of his sharp brown dress shoes on the linoleum fill the room. Maison Bell continued to complete her paperwork. 

The large office chair betrayed none of Maison’s imposing height, though its wide wings gave her the appearance of being seated at a throne. She wore her long red hair in a tight knot at the back of her head, bold against her light and freckled skin. Like the other Preservationists in this wing of the Ministry, she had the proper navy blue robes embroidered with the Department’s awful golden crest. Maison always wore the robes exactly to uniform requirement, a fact which Draco found rather off-putting. Today, her neatness itched under his skin.

“Never in my five years of work in this department have I refused an assignment.” Draco began, voice tight and high. His face burned, and he knew precisely how embarrassingly red he would appear with his ridiculous pale Malfoy skin, and his hands were twitching towards his wand. “I have gone to the most remote, most esoteric, most _obsolete_ places for you.”

Maison lifted an eyebrow, but one could not be sure if the expression was intended for Draco, or for the paperwork she was fervently scribbling at. Draco paused his pacing and stepped over the chair, squeezing the top edge, fingers pressing deep into the padded leather. 

“The Murk family estate in Newham? With the stinging nettles in the walls and that Merlin-be-damned sulphur smell, do you remember that? Did I complain _even once_ about that project?” He huffed out a breath. “Well, even if I _did_ whinge a bit, I _completed_ that awful thing and I didn’t even hex Mafalda Murk _once_.”

Draco walked around the chair and threw himself down in it, arms crossed over his neat navy dress shirt. He frowned at Maison. She glanced up at him and smiled a smile that Draco just _knew_ would not bode well for him. Those sharp blue eyes could catch him in anything. Draco would swear up and down that she had been a Slytherin in her day, though she claims to have been in Ravenclaw.

“I certainly hope you’re not implying what I think you’re implying, Draco, darling,” she said with a wave of the hand. “And there’s really no need for the hysterics.”

“That house is evil.”

“I’ve seen your CV,” she frowned at him, “And I know you’ve dealt with far darker properties than an old bit of London real estate.”

Draco spluttered at her, sitting forward in the chair. It _was_ true, though he didn’t want to admit that to her. She knew as well as he did that his two years of house arrest, patrolling the manor’s long, empty corridors had been his first-ever project. And that the first two years of work in the Department were spent inventorying the worst-of-the-worst Death Eater properties across all of London. Even still, he _had_ grown quite a lot in the past years, and was doing quite a lot of _serious_ work and it really wasn’t fair to punish him with an awful, evil building--

She waved a hand at him to silence his protestations. He narrowed his eyes, pulling out a thin navy blue leather portfolio from his satchel. The cover was marked with ‘Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.’ He had one of these for every project he had completed in the department. Each contained the initial notes from the assignment, and would grow and grow over the course of his research and inventory. But this folder would not grow. Not by his hands. He tossed it onto the desk in front of her.

“Did you _read_ my owl last night?” he grumbled, “This house nearly killed me!”

“Barely.”

“I could have died! You don’t know how hot it got in that bathroom, and none of my spells would work. _And_ there was that step that fell out from underneath me. What if I had gone through the floor entirely?” He turned his expression into a slightly more demure one, tilting his chin down and flicking his eyes up at her. Such a tactic rarely worked on Maison, but it was worth a try. 

“You wouldn’t want your best Preservationist found dead -- or worse, _damaged_ \-- on the job, now, would you?”

“Damaged?” Maison snorted. “I doubt that.”

“Damaged!” Draco nodded fervently. “The door _burned_ me, Maison. I won’t go back there. It’s quite clear something or someone does not want me inside that house.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, and picked up the file, paging through it ever-so-slowly. 

Draco recrossed his arms, running a hand over the silver embroidery along the hem of his shirt to calm himself, the neat lines of thread a comforting and familiar texture. He glanced at her, watching as she flipped to the page outlining the goals of the project.

“It’s just too bad, you know,” she said, running a finger down the list of considerations. “With all those Black family heirlooms, you would be the perfect fit, really.”

Draco glowered at the ugly Christmas decoration on her desk instead of meeting her fierce gaze. It was a tiny succulent, bent over under the weight of a large ornament and it was positively appalling. He poured all of his sour mood into glaring at that ridiculous thing. She was going to convince him to go back to that cursed house, he could feel it. Stupid Christmas spirit and all that. 

She did not look up at him, though she paused to tap a hand on the folder. “And what an exciting project for you to get to lead, managing an Order property. Wouldn’t that just do such great things for your reputation.”

“My reputation doesn’t need it,” he said quietly, though he knew this was a lie. Even nearly nine years after the war, his name still came before discussions of his work.

“I suppose I’ll have to see if Abramson or Cecily wants to pick it up, ghost stories or no. Cecily would take on anything, I know that for a fact,” she mused, tapping her fingers on the desk.

“And would absolutely squander any historic value in that house with her shoddy spellwork,” Draco spat.

Maison shrugged, placing the folder down on the desk and pulling out a list from the upper drawer. “Abramson’s nearly finished with the Moldovian furniture commission, so I suppose I could send him off there instead of the charity bit in Hogsmeade. Of course, that would leave _you_ to work with the head inventory for the Society for Orphaned Houselves.”

Draco shuddered at the thought. 

“I suppose I could keep Abramson on that project, and have Heatherby go over to Grimmuald…” 

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me, Malfoy,” she said, sitting forward in her chair. Draco sat forward too, hands on the soft leather arms of the chair, fingers digging in. They glared at one another for a long moment.

Draco stood up and began to pace again. “I will have a cursebreaker and a poltergeist specialist there with me first thing Monday morning, and _you_ will pay for the extra expense.” Maison raised a single brown eyebrow. “ _And_ I want hazard pay.”

“We’ll call in the Weasley boy, hmm? You’re always a bit cheerier with him around.”

“Am _not_ ,” Draco muttered. “If I end up well and truly murdered on this project, it’ll be on your head, you know.”

Maison closed the _Number Twelve_ folder and pushed it back to the edge of the desk. “I’m willing to take that risk.”

“What about the poltergeist specialist? Weasley’s a cursebreaker. What if there’s something… _sentient_ in there?”

“I thought you had decided it was the house attacking you.” She had already turned back to her paperwork, re-inking the quill and began to check boxes on the standard yellow Ministry form. 

“Well, it’s _most likely_ the house--”

“And houses are quite sentient, as you remind me on the daily,” she waved a hand to lift the folder into the air and float it towards him. “See how it goes with Weasley and we’ll manage from there.”

He plucked the binder out of the air with a sullen sigh. Though he had dealt with far angrier houses before, there was something about this one that just didn’t sit quite right in his mind. He felt like he must be missing something, some piece of the story that either Maison had not told him, or someone had not told her. He stalked out of the office lost in thought, fingers running over the soft cover, the embossed letters of _Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place_. 

Back at his desk, he opened it back up to the first page. These notes had been compiled by the Great War Historical Society, whose mission in the last few years had turned to digging out increasingly microscopic bits of Order of Phoenix history. Getting the permits to begin work on Grimmauld had been an unexpected victory in their quest to find all possible material. 

There had been no will, after Harry Potter’s death, so the exact inheritance of Grimmauld had been uncertain. It had taken a year from Potter’s disappearance for the Ministry to pronounce him dead, and another year after that for them to investigate his estate. The funds remained inaccessible, locked in a trust with Potter as the only keyholder. The goblins at Gringotts, in a demonstration that had made all the papers, had refused to duplicate the key or turn over the funds. But the property -- that was fair game, and the Ministry had jumped on it as soon as due respect had been shown. 

The Gryffindors, loyal as ever, had tried to fight for it, but even the house would not open to them. It had been too close to the war’s end for Narcissa or Andromeda to make a claim. And so, it had gone over to Ministry hands. Perhaps that was for the best, Draco thought, if the place was so cruel to its visitors. 

The sparse notes detailed the Society’s request to the Ministry for the deeds to Grimmauld, the posthumous transfer of rights over to the Society, and a cursory inventory of the estate clearly compiled by a complete imbecile. Naturally, Draco had thrown the inventory out entirely. He would need to start anew in more ways than one after Bill Weasley had a crack at whatever _it_ was inside.

It was strange, though. There were no indications, either in the Society’s inventory or in the brief historical record, of any hauntings or things going amiss. Perhaps whatever was wrong in the house was a new occurrence. Or, perhaps it was to do with Draco himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come back tomorrow to meet Hot Cursebreaker Bill Weasley (who we all have a crush on). Also, I wrote this chapter while part-way through _Gideon the Ninth_ and my poor gay heart was just overwhelmed by all the beautiful badass women. Can you tell? 😂
> 
> Today's other-advent-fics to watch out for rec is for [vivi1138](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivi1138/pseuds/vivi1138)'s _[A Wish and a Wardstone](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020/works/27685967)_ because I'm absolutely intrigued by the premise and utterly in love with vivi's Draco. Here's a quote to encourage you off to read it, in a letter from our dear Draco to Harry: _"In short, I am currently living in the boathouse, and you’re the only one I trust to assist me with building a new manor. You did, after all, do a remarkable job with the wizarding orphanage."_


	3. Bill Weasley, Cursebreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Return to Grimmauld Place with Bill, part one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank you all for all of your lovely comments so far <3 This is more response than I was expecting and you all just keep making my day right over again when I wake up to your thoughtful comments. Thank you!!

_ Monday, 20 November 2007 _

“Weasley,” Draco nodded to Bill as he walked up to the stoop in front of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. He glanced down at his watch (a neat A&S with stars across the deep blue face) and saw that Weasley was, indeed, nearly fifteen minutes late. 

“It’s Bill,” he answered, walking over to the stoop to lean against the metal rail “As you well know, Draco. Had a good weekend?” _Bill_ asked, in that gorgeous, rough and ready voice of his. Draco was quite sure his vocal cords had not been touched by the werewolf, but his gravelly voice had all the right roughness around the edges.

“Hmm?” Draco asked, glancing up with faux nonchalance (of course he had heard him. He couldn’t _not_ hear him.)

Bill smiled at him warmly, that open look that he always gave to anyone -- goddamned Gryffindors and their _genuineness_. And this smile was ridiculously endearing with the way his deep scars quirked the corner of his mouth down. “I asked how your weekend was,” he continued, sipping from a tall container of that disgustingly sweet coffee he always drank. 

Draco looked at him fully then, and noticed with slight concern the deep bags under his eyes. It was odd because Bill was the kind of person who would be spry after four days without sleep, and yet, he looked like he was verging on just that. 

Draco’s nose crinkled as he caught the sickly scent of fake flavoring from a meter away, and he most certainly didn’t want to get any closer. What was wrong with a perfectly plain cup of tea? Perhaps the coffee was Bill’s comfort for whatever was keeping him, but what an awful, sugar-encrusted comfort it must be. 

In the several cases they had worked together (as old houses _so_ often needed the expertise of a cursebreaker, and Maison had rather frightening aspirations as a matchmaker, Bill’s wife be damned), Bill would always bring one of these nasty things, sipping away merrily as if it didn’t turn Draco’s stomach. “Got a case of the Mondays?” 

“A bit,” Draco murmured thoughtfully, waving a hand at his head. “Was a long weekend.” It wasn’t, but he would be quite embarrassed to admit the amount of time he had spent re-reading the Number Twelve folder and reviewing _Defying the Dark Lord: The Order of the Phoenix, 1970-1998._

Bill nodded knowingly, that same warm smile. “My youngest -- she’s four -- has discovered magizoology, so, naturally, we spent the weekend at the London Zoo.”

“Naturally,” Draco concurred absently. Weasley was making his coffee hover in midair as he tugged his hair out of the tight knot to retie it lower and looser. He stuck his wand through the new bun, continuing to talk, completely ignorant of Draco’s wide eyes. 

“I’ll do anything to make her happy, but I swear to Merlin we spent twelve hours there and I don’t know how she had the energy to just keep at it. I mean, I have plenty of stamina.” Draco coughed slightly, “But Merlin’s pants, if you have any desire to learn about Abraxans, or her new favorite, clabberts, sticky and nasty as they are, I’m your man.”

Draco’s eyes flicked over to him then quickly, furtively back to the _Number Twelve_ folder. “Hmm,” he nodded.

“I didn’t even know there were so many types of Abraxans, or that they all have different coloring that reflects their magical abilities--”

“William, look, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but--”

He smiled, eyes bright and wide. “But you’re eager to get started.”

“Am I so predictable?”

“Just a bit,” Bill sipped at the coffee, “You nearly took my head off on the Van Worth case two years ago when I made you wait two days over that awful lingering _Confringo_.” 

“I didn’t _nearly take your head off_ ,” Draco muttered, frowning at him. Bill shrugged. They both knew that Draco had threatened several different curse variants at several different significant body parts 

Draco cleared his throat, looking away, down at the folder, at the ground, literally anywhere but into those deep green eyes that felt so oddly familiar. “Did Maison tell you about it all? It’s a bit of an _odd_ case.” 

“Right,” Bill started, turning towards the big brick building beside them. “I guess this place always has been a bit odd,” he said, voice heavy. Draco suddenly felt a bit awkward, breath caught in his throat.

“You spent time here during the, uhm,” he started, words coming in anxious starts, “The Order. You were in the Order, of course.” How shortsighted of him to have forgotten. He flicked his eyes over at Bill, worried he had offended him.

Bill was looking up at the thick wooden door, gaze soft and sad. Draco stepped infinitesimally closer to him, running his hand over the grip on his wand in its sleeve for comfort. “I was,” he said quietly. “Spent the better part of a year kicking around the kitchen.” 

Bill snapped himself out of his reverie, turning a smile on Draco. It didn’t quite meet his eyes. “It’s haunted, or potentially just out to get you. Is that right?” 

Draco valiantly, crossed his arms and tried not to look as frightened as he felt about this place. Unfortunately, that meant he was staring at those goddamned white curtains in the front window, which were, to be fair, resolutely still. For now.

“It’s something,” Draco murmured. “The place nearly killed me on Thursday.”

“I’m glad you’re still standing.”

“Wouldn’t want you to get stuck with Heatherby on one of these projects,” Draco said, opening to a blank note page. He’d added a yellow legal pad into the folder over the weekend, and had already filled several pages worth with his impressions of the house so far. 

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” Weasley chuckled. He finished off the last of his coffee and vanished the cup with a swish of his wand. “Well, let’s see. And you can always stand behind me if you’re afraid.” He swallowed and looked up at the house, clearly trying to prepare himself to go inside. 

Draco made a noise in the back of his throat and quickly swallowed it, crossing his arms. “ _If_ I’m frightened, it’s because I’m perfectly in the right to be. The house is _murderous_ , Weasley, and I’m taking the _appropriate_ precautions.” 

“Right,” Weasley answered, and started walking towards the door.

And if Draco did hover just behind him, well, then, who was to blame him anyway? A chill had settled into his bones, one unrelated to the cool winter air and quite unperturbed by the thick wool cloak he wore. They walked up the few steps and Draco glanced over at that bastardly curtain as Bill raised the keys to the door, opening it with a practiced flourish. 

He gasped, stumbling down a step, as he caught what he could swear seemed to be a hand letting the curtain’s edge fall back down over the window. It was there, no mistaking it, but gone as soon as he had fully laid eyes on it. 

Draco found his arms wrapped warmly in Bill’s, and his breath caught in his throat for the second time in sixty seconds. He glanced up at amused blue eyes and steadied himself, stepping back and brushing his hands over invisible fluff on his navy cloak. _Married_ , _the man is_ married, Draco chided himself. 

“Did you see that?” he nodded to the window. “There, in the curtain.” 

“Not a thing,” Bill said, and turned the doorknob with a steady click. He stepped forward into that same foyer, with its same gorgeous tile and thick red rug, and Draco followed just behind him. Bill paused, staring around the room with a haunted look in his eye, and Draco stepped around him. 

“There, look!” he pointed to the edge of the carpet furthest from the door. A single footprint, facing towards them, had disturbed the dust pattern and depressed the fabric of the rug. Draco rushed over, stepping carefully on the tile and searching for others. “Look at this!”

Bill tucked a strand of hair back over his ear and drew his wand. He walked over and squatted down beside the print, squinting at it. He prodded the rug with his wand, revealing nothing but another small puff of dust.

“Draco,” Bill said. Draco looked up from his vantage point, surveying the foyer for other prints in the dust. “Come here.” Perplexed, he walked closer, turning his head to track the path of the print.

“Do ghosts even _leave_ prints?” Bill asked, gesturing for him to step even closer. “Look.” He pointed to the rug, where Draco’s neat brown dress shoe perfectly aligned with the shape of the print. 

Draco harumphed, crossing his arms and stomping away, into the parlor. The hearth was unlit, as he had left it, and the pattern of ash was undisturbed. The chairs were in the same place, and the curtain, damned as it was, hovered innocently in the window frame. Draco took a moment to run his hand over the gorgeous brocade sitting chairs, fingers tracing the neat seam over the chair’s back edge. This would be a career-making project, if only they could manage the murdering-house bits of it.

These chairs, for example, must be at least two hundred years old, never reupholstered, but made with a luscious fae-woven silk brocade, with the inbuilt anti-shred charms. Draco found himself distracted, peering down at the neatly carved front legs, built from the same dark oak that the coffee table was made from. He ran a hand over a tiny chip in the front leg of one of them, smoothing his finger over the tiny splinter. They were in _such_ gorgeous condition. Oh, all the glorious things he could do with this house if he stayed on the project. 

In the foyer, he could hear Bill casting basic revealing charms. He stood, pulling himself away from the chair with a sigh, and gently ran a hand over the carving at the top of the seat as he drifted back towards Bill. He could imagine this room bustling with tea or drinks, a flurry of visitors taking off cloaks and hats and settling in for a fun night in. He tugged his own cloak off, eyes lost in the vision of snow shucked off by the door, umbrellas deposited in -- well, they would have to replace that awful troll’s leg stand, some museum would surely jump at the chance to have it. He let his own cloak hang on the ancient coat rack by the door, tucking the folds in so it would settle neatly, and turned to Bill.

“Find anything?” he asked, stepping lightly to the man’s side. He wore a frustrated expression, wand settled and loose in his hand.

“Not even a little,” Bill murmured. “Draco, there’s not a smidge of dark magic in this house, less even than I’d expect, given what the portraits ‘round here used to shout.” 

“Well that can’t be true,” Draco answered. He walked over the banister, running a hand over its warm mahogany edge. 

“I’ve cast every revealing charm I know. There’s nothing here that lit it up. Not even a bit.” 

Draco sighed dramatically, then turned around to the house. “Hey!” he shouted up the stairs. “Listen!” He heard a small _creak_ , as if the house had turned to listen to him. “I’m back! I said I was going and staying gone and I _lied_ to you.”

Nothing.

“And I’m not leaving again -- so you’d better show yourself, whatever evil magic you’ve got on. Come _on_ ,” he muttered, turning in circles as he spoke. The house did nothing. “You were so eager to put me out on my ear last week, what is it? Are you tired? Used up all your magic on a few childish pranks?” Not a creak. 

“I swear, William--”

“I believe you,” Bill answered, lips twitching. “Why don’t we go up to the bathroom? Maison said that was where _the incident_ happened. It was the fourth floor one, right? With that ugly claw-foot tub.”

Draco shuddered, imagining the unsettling steam filling the room, coming closer and closer to him once again. “I’ll go up in front,” Bill stepped closer to him, brushing Draco’s shoulder with his own in that _casual_ way he always seemed to be touching him. Draco most certainly didn’t make a tiny embarrassed squeak as he walked quickly to keep pace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's advent-y fic rec is for [tainara_black's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tainara_black/pseuds/tainara_black) _[Dragons Don't Know Paradise](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020/works/27818707)_ , a lovely and heartbreaking story set in the Muggle world in 2004, featuring Wolfstar and an HIV+ Remus Lupin and I am quite sure, much beautiful heartbreak ahead. Go enjoy!


	4. The House-Elf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill and Draco work on the house, part two.

The house seemed to grow taller as they walked, as if it were stairs adding on with each step they took. Draco peered up past Bill into the darkness of the floor above, feeling distinctly like they were being watched. 

“Cast a _Revelio_ ,” Draco whispered.

“That won’t do anything,” Bill answered in a normal voice. “Why are you whispering?”

“You can’t feel _that_?”

Bill rolled his eyes and pushed onward. Somehow, they had not reached the first landing yet. Draco glanced behind him, expecting to see a mountain’s worth of stairs, but it looked rather like a perfectly normal staircase.

“Paranoid, Draco,” Bill said under his breath, shaking his head with a bit of mirth. 

“I’m not paranoid,” Draco muttered, stomping more heavily as they reached the first landing. Once again, nothing looked out of place, just as undisturbed as it had seemed yesterday. _Had_ he imagined it all? “Cast at that door. Can you get it open?” Draco pointed to the locked door, the one whose handle had burned his palm.

Bill walked over to it, murmuring and casting a soft blue light over the door frame and handle. He looked back at Draco with a crinkle between his eyes, shaking his head, and reached for the knob.

“No!” Draco rushed forward, but it was too late. Bill’s hand had already made contact with the handle, and he was… perfectly fine. Draco frowned as Bill turned the knob and pushed the door open. It seemed to be a perfectly normal room, if a bit incongruous in decoration with the rest of the house. Draco smoldered at the room, shaking his head as he walked inside, taking in the ridiculous, neat bed and empty bedside table. _This_ was what the house had been protecting? 

He stomped back out, Bill ahead of him, and reached for the knob to pull it closed. Draco shouted as his hand lit up in pain once again and he jumped forward into Bill’s back. 

“Fuck, _Salazar’s--_ fuck!” Draco clutched his wrist, whispering a healing charm to staunch the freezing pain shooting through his palm. Bill was back at the door, casting charm after charm at the knob. Frost was dissipating slowly from the metal. Bill was muttering something unintelligible and shaking his head. 

“Doesn’t make any sense,” Bill was saying.

“Exactly!” Draco shouted, shaking his hand as the healing charm took over and his palm slowly began to return to a normal, pale color. “It doesn’t make _any_ sense.”

“No,” Bill frowned. “There’s no curse on this door, and nothing that would make it target you in particular.”

“And yet!” Draco offered his hand as evidence. Bill reached out and tugged at the knob, shutting the door without so much as a wince.

“And yet.”

“So what in Salazar’s name is happening?” Draco’s voice was pitchier than before, and he cleared his throat to try to limit the appearance of anxiety. “What’s this about?”

“The only thing I can pick up -- and this is a bit weird, Draco, I must admit.” Bill turned back to frown at the door. “There’s a very recent freezing charm. Something someone might use to make ice or-- I don’t know. But very localized, and not a curse, nor anything in-built. The only way that could be an accurate reading would be if someone actually _cast_ a freezing charm.”

“A ghost!” Draco shouted, sure of himself now. A house couldn’t do such specified spellwork, not like that. “I _told_ you, and I _told_ Maison, and _she said_ a Poltergeist Specialist would be a bad idea, and too expensive--”

“And she was right.”

“What?”

“Ghosts can’t cast charms.”

Draco whipped around, staring around the room, wand drawn, eyes wide. “So…”

“Well, there are two options.” Bill watched Draco, tapping his wand against his chin thoughtfully.

“What are the options.” Draco’s voice was strangled, tight, as he waited for _whatever-it-was_ to leap out at them again. He stared around, utterly unsettled. 

“Either my spellwork is shoddy,” he shrugged, and Draco shook his head. They both knew that was not the likely answer. “Or there’s someone here.”

Anxiety pooled in Draco’s stomach. This was not how these jobs were meant to go. All the people were meant to be dead or gone, and the _furniture_ , the furniture made sense. And yes, there was the occasional stray curse or ugly heirloom, or even the rare splinter. But Historic House Preservation was meant to be a rather low-stress career. Yet, here he was, back to back with the Weasley cursebreaker, wand drawn on a house -- or a person -- who had some vendetta against him. 

“Listen here,” he shouted, pressing ever closer to Bill’s back. “Show yourself. This coward’s act is not going to get either of us anywhere good.” He whispered to Bill. “Should we call your brother?”

“What are the Aurors going to do about this?” Bill muttered back, casting a subtle protection charm around them.

“ _Hominem rev--”_ the spell was only half-way out of Draco’s mouth when a _crack_ split the air. Draco looked down. A small house-elf with curling ears and a long nose glared angrily at him. Draco let out all the air he had been holding in in a great huff, shaking his head at the elf. Bill, who had turned at the sudden sound, crouched down beside Draco with a ridiculous, gentle smile.

“Hello, Kreacher,” Bill said. Draco snorted, crossing his arms and shaking his head. 

The elf cleared his throat, looking frighteningly displeased. He wore a clean tea towel and a long golden necklace draped around his neck three times and still drooping against the towel. Odd. This elf must have been minding the house all alone for the past five years. And yet, he’d someone found the time to find a fresh tea towel, while leaving the entire entryway covered in a thick pat of dust?

“Kreacher does not know why sirs are at Grimmauld Place,” the elf said, in a raspy, awful voice. 

“We’re doing a bit of work ‘round the place, Kreacher,” Bill answered, nodding with a friendliness Draco found utterly absurd, even if the two knew each other from the Order days.

Kreacher stood across the hallway, right at the top of the stairs, as if he were about to bolt. His hand tightened and loosened on the chain and he seemed distracted staring fixedly between Bill and Draco. Draco, for his part, was trying _very hard_ to be patient and not snap at either Bill or the elf, as Bill was still crouched on the floor, bringing himself down to this ridiculous elf’s level.

“Listen, _Kreacher_ ,” Draco snapped finally. Both the elf and Bill turned dark eyes on him, with frighteningly similar levels of distaste. “Maybe you didn’t realize this, but this place is property of the Ministry of Magic these days.”

“Kreacher did know this, sir,” the elf said, frowning at Draco and shaking his head. “This does not mean Kreacher _likes_ it, this _shameful_ betrayal. Mistress Black would not approve.”

Bill began to speak, and Draco quickly cut him off. “Fortunately for both of us, you don’t _have_ to like it. Now, I’ll be staying here off and on over the next month or so as I document this place, so you’re going to have to give it up with all this nonsense,” he waved towards the doorknob behind them. 

Again, it seemed like Kreacher was not looking at him and Draco just _barely_ resisted the urge to snap his fingers, instead taking a deep and steadying breath. “Kreacher does not know what Draco Malfoy is talking about.”

Draco put his head in his hands.

Bill cleared his throat quietly, and said, with a ridiculous smile in his voice, “Mr. Kreacher, what Draco is trying to say is that there’s been a few… incidents around the house so far. With doorknobs turning very hot, or bathrooms fogging up.” Draco did not peek from between his fingers, he most certainly did _not_ see Bill putting a calming arm on the elf’s shoulder.

“Whether you know anything about it or not, Draco just wants to make sure he’ll be safe while he keeps working on the house. Do you think that might be alright?” 

“I don’t need you to play mediator,” Draco muttered under his breath. Bill shot him a dark look and he bit his tongue, glaring.

Kreacher’s eyes flicked to Bill’s, to Draco’s, and then off to somewhere behind them both. _It was really rather rude,_ Draco thought. A Black family elf really ought to be better taught than this. Perhaps the years away had done something to his mind.

“If Draco Malfoy _must_ work on the house, Kreacher is not able to say no. But Draco Malfoy and Mr. Weasley ought to know that the house does not wish him here.” The elf folded his hands together in front of him.

Draco sputtered and began pacing. “Oh, the _house_ doesn’t want me here, is that it?” He paused at the base of the next flight of stairs, glaring up into the dark recesses. “Listen here, Number Twelve--”

“Shouting at the house will do little good,” Kreacher offered petulantly.

Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, Draco tapped a finger against his leg, counting to ten. He would not shout. He would not get cross. He would _remain calm_. He closed his eyes for a long moment, and when he opened them, well, the situation was no different, but his blood pressure _was_ slightly lower. 

“Will I be at risk of bodily harm if I continue working on this house, Kreacher?” Draco asked, voice monotone.

Once again, Kreacher’s eyes did that bizarre slide from Draco’s face to somewhere in the distance and back again, as if it were perfectly normal. Could he really blame him for having been locked here all alone for so long? Draco’s eyes flicked to Bill’s and they exchanged a glance -- he must have noticed it too. 

“Draco Malfoy and Mr. Weasley will not be at risk of bodily harm,” Kreacher sighed with a deep unhappiness, as if Draco had destroyed whatever one thing was most precious to him.

“Right,” Draco clapped his hands together.

“I’m sure Draco will be sure to respect you and the House,” Bill added, tilting his head toward Kreacher, “And will be _very careful_ with all of the items in the house. Nothing like Mundungus Fletcher, I swear to it.”

Kreacher nodded, offering Bill a toothy smile before turning back to glare at Draco.

“Yes, I will. I will. Of course,” Draco huffed. “I will be _extraordinarily careful_ and will do nothing to hurt the integrity of the house.”

“And Draco Malfoy will not remove anything from the house without Kreacher’s knowing about it.” 

Draco nodded seriously. 

“Very well,” Kreacher said. “Then the House and Kreacher will allow you to continue your necessary work.” He opened his hands to the stairwell between them, and squinted at Draco. “But Draco Malfoy ought to know that he’ll be watched.”

“Yes, yes, you’ll be watching me. Best behavior, I swear it,” Draco crossed his chest, gritting his teeth.

Kreacher muttered a quick, “Hmm,” giving Draco one final appraising look, and disappeared with a pop, likely back to whatever lurking place he had been hiding before.

Bill stood up from his crouch on the floor with a deep groan and a stretch. He stepped closer to Malfoy’s side, eyes just a little too bright, betraying something deeper on his mind. 

But Bill put it aside, dusting off his trousers, “Well, now that’s out of the way,” he smiled warmly, and Draco looked away, refusing to find it attractive in the _least_. “Shall we check over the rest of the house? The evil bathroom and all that?”

Draco nodded, still unsettled by Kreacher’s odd behavior. That had to be the explanation for the distinct feeling that something -- or some _one_ was watching him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit emotional about rec'ing today's fic to go check out, because it's been absolutely incredible to see [onbeinganangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onbeinganangel/pseuds/onbeinganangel)'s _[Aeternus Solem](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020/works/27821446)_ grow into such a gorgeous piece of writing. Featuring Auror Potter sent off to Brazil to rescue a certain British Unspeakable from a debilitating curse... and chock full of emotional moments, flashbacks, some gorgeous curse-breaking attempts, and so much more. Give it a read!


	5. Harry Potter Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and the Magical Preservationists Guild join in the celebrations for "Remembrance Day" acknowledging the victims of the Wizarding Wars. Plus, meet members of the Great War Historical Society (the financiers for Draco's current project).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with chapter 2, this chap mentions some MCD-adjacent themes. Happiness is coming, I swear, and as always, this fic is not tagged for MCD on purpose. Come to my tumblr if you want more details!

_Monday, 20 November 2007 (later)_

Two hours into the annual Harry Potter Day (as Draco preferred to call it, though it was actually called Remembrance Day) and his hands were freezing cold, his warming charm had entirely faded _once again_ , and his feet were damp with the melting snow. It could have been a beautiful night. The lights were gorgeous, lit up and hanging all across Diagon, in shapes of stars and angels and magical creatures. _The magic is really quite gorgeous,_ Draco thought, eyes catching on the floating lights above.

The snow had only just begun to fall as the R-Day ceremonies were starting. But the temperature had quickly dropped, and the atmospheric charms that the Ministry always organized were weak at best. All they had served to do was melt the snow such that they were all standing in puddles.

The Minister of Magic was wrapping his speech up and turning it over to the “war heroes.” Every year, they would parade out a long stream of Gryffindors and former Order members to talk about the war, about all they had lost. And about how grateful everyone was that there was peace now, what a credit to the Aurors.

And every single one of them would allude to how terribly sad it was that Harry Potter, hero of the entire Wizarding World had died in service of the Aurors in that first year, right after the war.

“We’re grateful to every single one of our wonderful trainee Aurors too,” Minister Shacklebolt was saying, “Who -- like so many trainees before them,” and here, he sniffled. _Rather over-the-top_ , in Draco’s opinion. “Commit their lives to protecting our great witches and wizards.” Everyone knew he was talking about Harry Potter.

The first year after the war had been too chaotic, everyone trying to make sense of the war and how it had impacted their lives. Perhaps that was the excuse as to why Remembrance Day was in December, and not in May, when the war was won. But December, a year and a half after the War, that was when Potter had been officially declared “Assumed dead” and no longer just “Missing in Action.” Maybe the Minister had thought people needed the boost after hearing such devastating news. The event was always basically a Harry Potter love-fest anyways.

Draco leaned from one foot to the other, trying to shift slightly out of the giant puddle that was steadily soaking its way into his ( _beautiful leather, now damaged)_ dress shoe. He wasn’t allowed to move very far -- the Preservationists Guild attended all of these in full force, with their complete navy uniforms. They stood in neat lines, too close to the stage for him to get away with sitting down or breaking rank.

To their left, the Auror department composed in strict maroon lines. Draco glared over at them, wondering what kind of charms were keeping _their_ feet from getting wet. All of them seemed unperturbed by the weather, keeping their military-like stances and their heads held high. Somewhere in the crowd was Pansy Parkinson, and Draco searched for a moment, though he already knew he wouldn’t be able to spot her. She was usually tucked far in the back, hidden among the ranks from public view, a fact that she would never admit. Such was the way for former Slytherins.

Draco ran a hand over the thick wool cape adorned with the golden crest over his heart. Beneath the cape, he wore a neat navy suit (bespoke, of course, though in the appropriate cut and color). His position was a privileged one, standing among the front ranks of the Preservationists. It was really an accident he had gotten so far in the ranks. He had never meant to do so.

It started during the years of house arrest. Draco had stumbled out of Erendor, the dementor-less, low-security prison, and back to the Manor with no idea of how to go forward. The walls were horrific, memories cast in every artifact around the house. Lucius was in Azkaban, and his mother had entirely retreated in on herself. It was Draco and the Manor, all day, every day. And eventually he got quite sick of it.

Narcissa stopped him partway through smashing through the entire first floor’s collection of antiques. Together, they had begun an inventory, processing each floor of the manor, each room, section by section, page by page. When all was said and done (and Draco still refused to enter a few rooms), the entire document spanned a whole sheaf of parchment and they had run through nearly a dozen quills. That was when Draco had first met Bill.

They had faced off at the front gates of the Manor, wands drawn, until Draco took a deep breath, counted to ten, and offered his first apology. It was stuttering, and quite terrible in fact. Draco had learned quite a bit more about “proper apologies” in the years since, and half of that from Bill himself. But Bill, being that ridiculously kind Weasley-type, had _accepted it_. Just like that! Had nodded in his quiet, kind way and they began to work on some of the darker artifacts from the Manor together.

A burst of applause distracted Draco from his reverie, and he caught Maison giving him a dark glare. He frowned at her and began emphatically clapping, trying to sort out who it was exactly that they were all meant to be applauding.

People everywhere were beginning to break rank and walk around, and Draco realized as he looked up at the stage that the speeches were _finally_ ending. Huffing a sigh of relief, Draco shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers and renewed his warming charm. He could walk away from the crowds and Apparate away in just another moment. He imagined the toasty fireplace in the Manor parlor, could almost smell the cup of mulled cider Narcissa would have waiting for him--

“Draco, _darling_ ,” Maison snapped him away from his fantasy. She looped her arm through his dragging him through the large crowd of navy-clad Preservationists. “You’ll come with me, won’t you? You’ll remember Saroya Vane, right? Of the Great War Historical Society.”

She was smiling her _play-nice-or-else_ smile, the one with eyes that would keep Draco from doing anything against her wishes. It was almost as bad as an _Imperio_ , he thought, the way she could absolutely command anyone in her presence, and he wondered briefly if she had any veela blood in her at all.

“Of course,” Draco drawled, extending a hand to Saroya. She was warm in every sense of the word, warm brown eyes, golden-brown skin, big curly hair, and a warm hand as she shook his. Maison must have cast a small privacy charm around them, as the noise of the crowd dispersing and chatting nearby quieted to a dull hum. Draco tried very hard to ignore the wetness seeping through his shoes, muttering a drying charm for the third time in the last hour.

“Maison was,” Saroya smiled between the both of them, “Giving me some updates on Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.” She leaned forward, eyes flashing in the glittering lights above them. “I hear there’s a ghost story to be told.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow, leaning in closer to her. “Oh yes. Did Maison tell you I _saw_ him on Thursday? Right there in the bathroom mirror, real as anything.”

“Are you so sure it’s a ‘him’?” Saroya grinned. “Maybe the ghost of an Order member is lurking around.” She turned to Maison, drawing her closer with a wide arm. “Do you think we ought to have Draco try to speak to it?”

And wouldn’t that get them all the funding they would ever need? Draco could imagine the book series, oral history interviews, and tours they would do with that ghost, willing or no.

Draco cleared his throat ever-so-softly, demuring at Saroya, “We’ve actually managed to get the,” he waved a hand, “Phantom, as it were, under control. It seems to be a manifestation of the house itself, not an actual _being_.”

Maison raised her eyebrows. She hadn’t heard this update yet -- Bill was always quite slow about filing his report, and Draco had taken the evening off to mull over the files and make a plan for the rest of the week.

“I spoke to the house elf, actually,” Draco went on, looking proudly between them. Clearly, neither had known about Kreacher’s existence, not even in the Ministry probate records. The pair exchanged a glance.

“Did you?” Saroya asked, “I hadn’t been informed there was--”

“We didn’t know,” Maison interrupted. “We wouldn’t withhold such information, of course. The Society is very important to us, and we know how important the _Order_ projects are to you.”

“Of course,” Saroya nodded, “I only meant to wonder at why the Ministry had not included that in the records.”

“Must have been an oversight,” Draco put in, “But I can assure you that my work will cover any details missed in the initial notes. I _am_ quite good at my job.”

“I’m sure,” Saroya smiled lightly, glancing over her shoulder at some of the stodgier members of the Order chatting behind her.

“We’ll be absolutely sure to keep you all informed,” Maison bubbled at her, a little too cheery for any of their liking.

Saroya nodded. “Ghost stories and all, I hope.”

“Naturally,” Draco drawled.

As Saroya swanned away to rejoin her elderly compatriots, Maison turned toward him with eyebrows raised. “A house-elf?”

“So it would seem,” Draco nodded, tugging his cloak tighter around him. The thick blue wool was warm, but he wished he had splurged on the additional inbuilt heating charms.

“I take it Bill was no help, then?” She gave him a knowing look, “Besides _moral_ support, of course.”

“He may have prevented my attacking said house elf,” Draco offered. “It’s no matter. It’s done. And I’ll be able to work on the house with no trouble now.”

“And the ghost?”

“I remain undecided.”

“See to it that you sort it out.” And with that, Maison swirled away, into the crowds, her long red hair swinging in a tall ponytail behind her. Draco watched her go, listening to the bustle of the crowds as the sound returned with a _pop_.

He would shift away from all the busyness of the main crowds and head back to the Manor. Visions of his warm bed swam before his eyes as he shouldered through the throngs of people. At the edge of the crowd, he stepped over the sidewalk’s edge, nearly missing it, and caught himself against a tall iron light post.

Just within earshot were the two most famous Gryffindors. Draco looked around -- not a pap in sight. They must have just got away. The throngs of photographers had seemed glued to the stage moments before, and yet, they seemed encased in a bubble of their own, with no people coming within a meter of either of them. Draco tilted his head, watching them.

Granger and Weasley stood, an umbrella charm shielding them from the softly falling snow. Two thick paper cups floated in the air between them, Granger with her wand pointed in their direction to keep them there. She was leaning towards Weasley, laughing at something, bright-eyed and far too cheery for a memorial day. And Weasley was -- well, how odd. He was sipping from another cup, the foamy chocolate leaving a stain on his upper lip.

Draco looked away quickly when Granger caught him staring. Her bright eyes narrowed at him, turning darker as she broke mid-laugh to twist from Weasley towards Draco. His breath caught and he dashed off, walking away as if he had not been caught in their little entente.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today, I'll send you off to the lovely [iero0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iero0/pseuds/iero0)'s advent fic, _[Cardinal Directions](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020/works/27814537)_ , a lively and beautifully descriptive story of Harry and Draco being taught the true meaning of Christmas by their lovely children. A wonderful read!


	6. The Locked Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco begins work on the room with the scalding/freezing doorknob, determined that it would not stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, friends, I am so excited to share this chapter with you. It was the first one I had visualized when I began writing, and it's one of my favorites (though it is actually one of the shortest in the fic). Enjoy!
> 
> CW: More haunting-ness.

_Tuesday, 21 November 2007_

Draco stood outside the door to the bedroom on the second floor, rubbing his hands together between the thick dragonhide gloves. He glared at the door, at that single splinter right down the center of it that made the deep wood just slightly imperfect, made the moulding look just slightly off. He took a deep breath. This room would not get the best of him. He would _not_ go back to Maison with yet another room as a failure.

Biting his tongue, he rushed at the door with full force, grabbing the handle through the gloves and praying whatever ghoul this was had not yet learned a stronger scalding charm. Of course, rather than resist him, the door swung open in full force, tossing him rather ungracefully onto his hands and knees in the room. He stood up, turning his ire at the door, which creaked innocently at him as if it had not entirely set that up.

Draco closed his eyes, drawing whatever patience he could muster. It was not the door’s fault. It was not this bloody room’s fault. It was whatever arsehole of a ghost’s fault, whoever it was that had decided he ought to be tormented while he was minding his own business and working. If he ever laid proper eyes on this thing, it was going to get exorcized within an inch of itself.

Well, so be it. He peered around the room. He had only had the briefest of glances when Bill had gotten the door open. There was a large four-poster bed with long, turned posts poking up towards the ceiling. There weren’t any bed hangings, though Draco could imagine the bed in another era decorated with velvety red curtains, trimmed with a vibrant gold -- hmm. Too Gryffindor. In his mind’s eye, he corrected the color to a deep blue instead. It would clash with the room’s current, decidedly red-and-gold decor, but that could be changed too.

There were two small nightstands on either side of the bed, topped with neatly symmetrical reading lamps. Draco walked over and tapped a wand on the nearest lamp and it flickered to life, filling the room with a soft glow. It felt warm, almost familiar, somehow. Draco turned away. There was a large wardrobe with closed doors, inlaid with a light geometric pattern along the front. And beside that sat a wide wooden desk, a comfortable chair shoved underneath without attention for how it would knock against the bottom, scratching the arms. Draco sighed. No one knew how to treat this beautiful furniture.

A smile tugged at his lips as he walked over to the bed and sat down on it, tugging off the dragonhide gloves as he walked and tossing them gently beside him. He ran a bare hand over the silky red bedspread. Some Gryffindor, certainly, had occupied this room. Draco mused over which of the Order members it might have been. It was a lovely bed, soft enough to sink into, but not so soft you couldn’t sit, leaning against that ornate wooden headboard. Draco put a hand on the carving at the crest, flexing his fingers over it.

At home, he had a similar bed frame, with a similar headboard. It had proven rather useful, not only as a beautiful accent piece for the room. This one too seemed in perfect condition, the neat wood carved by a masterful hand. At the crest of this bed, there was a small carving of a dragon, circling and darting back and forth in its cartouche. Draco found himself smiling as he watched it playing, though it seemed entirely ignorant of his presence.

He walked over to the dresser and ran a hand cautiously over the front of the wood, eyeing the light wood inlay for any signs of curses or heating charms. As none appeared, he flicked open the latch, peering into the clothes that were-- oddly modern. Draco’s eyebrows crinkled as he shifted through the neat shirts and robes. They were about his size, perhaps a little larger in the shoulders.

Several shirts, poorly pressed, of course, a set of Hogwarts robes, and several jumpers in different colors filled the closet. Draco let his hand brush over the sweaters, running the thick wool of one in a deep gray run through his fingers, then a thin emerald cashmere. The colors seemed almost familiar, as if they reflected a memory just out of Draco’s mind.

He tugged at one towards the back and it came loose from the hanger, falling off in his hand. It was an awful red color. _Some bizarre holiday gag_ , Draco thought, tossing it towards the armchair in the corner, _as no one in their right mind would buy such a thing_. The sweater landed shy of the chair, as if it had bounced off of something in the air, and crumpled to the floor. _Strange_.

Something was off. Draco turned from the closet to look around the room. There was not a single speck of dust to be seen. And this closet -- if it had been closed up for the past five years, it would smell musty and old. Not this bizarrely warm, sandalwood and curry and musk scent that felt almost alive. Draco turned back to the closet, running his hand over the top edge. No dust. He walked over to the nearest nightstand, peering into the bulb. Not a speck. He rushed over to the mirror, tall and thin in the corner. Pristine.

“Kreacher!”

A pop, and the little elf appeared, standing across the bed from Draco. He had splatters of food on his teatowel, as if he had been interrupted while making some kind of tomato sauce. Draco frowned at him.

“Of all the rooms in this house, _this_ is the one you’ve decided to clean?”

Kreacher shrugged.

“Uh uh,” Draco put two hands on the bed. “Why is this room clean, Kreacher?”

“Because it has been cleaned,” he said, putting his hands out as if it ought to be obvious.

“Right,” Draco frowned. “ _Why has it been cleaned_?”

“The room was dirty,” Kreacher tugged at the edge of his tea towel. “If sir wishes to speak in circles, Kreacher would much rather be spending this time fixing dinner, as he was doing before.”

Draco threw up his hands, shaking his head at the elf. He began pacing back and forth -- towards the nightstand, then away, and back again. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered. A thought hit him. He looked over at Kreacher. “Has someone asked you to clean this room?”

If Draco had not been watching carefully, he might have missed the way that Kreacher’s eyes widened just slightly and shifted just to Draco’s right. He might have missed the infinitesimal nod that Kreacher gave _just to Draco’s right._

“Yes, sir. Someone asked Kreacher to clean this room.”

Keeping eye contact on Kreacher, Draco moved infinitesimally backwards and to his right. He let his hand fall to his side, trying not to betray any sense of movement. “Someone asked you to clean the room. Who was it?”

He took another miniscule step, more of a shift backwards than a proper step. Kreacher glanced back to the spot and back at Draco.

“It was some time ago,” Kreacher shrugged. “Kreacher has a bad memory.”

Three things happened at almost the same time. Draco made one final push backwards and felt, brushing just against the palm of his hand, something distinctly _fabric_. He grabbed at it.

The room _cracked_ into instant darkness, the fabric disappeared, and Draco found himself shoved, tumbling forward towards the bed. He landed, palms out, against the red bedspread, eyes wide. The darkness faded almost as quickly as it had arrived, leaving him alone in the room.

As he caught his breath, he stared around the room. The bed was the same, but for the wrinkles his own hands had put into it. The spot where Kreacher had been standing was vacant. The wardrobe remained partially open, as it had been before. He walked slowly towards the armchair, hands in front of him, half terrified of finding something there and half terrified of finding absolutely nothing.

There was nothing. His hands landed on the velvet of the armchair, undisturbed as the rest of the room. He closed his eyes for a moment and prayed to Circe and all of the gods that he was not actually losing his mind. Circe didn’t answer. Nor did the ghost -- or the house -- or whatever _it_ was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today, I'll recommend you take a look on over at the wonderful [p1013](https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013)'s fic, _[The Hogwarts Book of Carols](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802951)_. Featuring a sweet Harry learning to knit, and all of them doing a good bit of healing from the pains of the war, and some really excellently written alternating POV chapters, and some really exciting bits of tension and mystery that I'm so curious to discover - go check it out!


	7. Stained Glass & Sawdust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco discovers the attic.

_Friday, 24 November 2007_

It perhaps speaks to Draco’s resolve that the incident in the locked bedroom did not deter his progress. He returned on Thursday, albeit with a bit of coaxing from Maison. And nothing went wrong on Thursday. He documented the entirety of the first floor sitting room, from the table with the gorgeous Black family dragon inlaid in silver to the jacquard-covered armchairs, and the cast iron grate on the fireplace.

And all of the furniture was in oddly excellent condition, as if it had been repaired within the last few years -- but that wouldn’t make sense for the Order. They had other priorities, of course. So perhaps the Black family had particularly strong restorative charms maintaining them. It wouldn’t be that out of the ordinary for such a house as this to keep the artifacts inside with such care. But that didn’t quite add up. Houses didn’t often replace entire chair legs, refinish who dining room tables.

 _Well, if Thursday could go so well,_ Draco thought, _Friday won’t be so terrible._ And off he went to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, hopeful thoughts on his mind.

With a _snap_ to appear on the doorstep, a tap on the entry lock, and a step inside, Draco set his things down in the atrium in a genuinely pleasant mood since the first time he had stepped over the threshold, only slightly marred by the constant feeling that he was being watched. He ran a hand over the banister as he smiled at the house.

“We’ll get you back into top form,” he said out loud, feeling the warmth of the mahogany wood beneath his hand.

He would not be spending the day inside, however, and with his bag in the foyer, he hurried off through the house to the yard. The yard was wide and covered in a light dusting of snow, but it would melt soon enough. The sun was high in the sky above him and growing warmer by the second. The perfect day for a bit of a fly-about.

Though he would usually prefer his own broom, Draco was curious about what might be lying around. He tugged open the doors to the little shed at the back of the yard, casting a _Lumos_. The shed was _massive_ , stretching back as far as he could see, with every kind of gardening tool on one side and every bit of state-of-the-art quidditch gear on the other side. There _must_ be an indoor pitch, Draco thought. He would have to go off in search of it on another day.

He walked to the Quidditch side, eyeing the brooms, and tilted his head. _Well, that’s odd_. There was an actual in-the-flesh Firebolt Supreme, and Draco _knew_ that couldn’t have been around since the Order days. He ran a hand over the light wood and could _feel_ the magic thrumming in the broom, itching to be put to flight. This broom was barely a year old. Draco didn’t even have his own yet -- was still using the Thunderbolt VI from last year.

Of course, it was always possible that the shed had some sort of connecting charm with Quality Quidditch Supplies. Draco knew of a few food cellars that did that sort of thing, and had even stumbled upon one once that was still keeping fresh strawberries in stock long after the owners had passed on. Maybe that was it.

He tugged the Firebolt off the wall, feeling the rush of magic underneath his fingertips and grinned. So it was a bit _extra_ to use a racing broom for a bit of window-inventorying. Sure. But no one was watching anyway.

Draco darted out of the shed and back onto the spongy grass, jumping onto the broom with a wide smile. It was as if he and the broom were made for one another. He leaned along the wood, taking it up into the air with such speed and ease. The wind ripped through his hair, sending the soft blond curls rippling and whistling through the short sides. Draco tilted his head back, face to the sun, and let his eyes drift closed, reveling in the feeling.

After a few swooping loops, he settled to a steady float several meters in the air. Draco summoned a sheet of parchment and a quill, setting them to hover behind him as he flew closer to the house. There were several stained glass windows that he wanted to inventory, and that work was better done from the outside.

He flew over to the first, on the first floor, just above the entryway. The window itself was caked in decades of grime, which was probably why it was nearly invisible from the inside. Draco cast a gentle cleaning charm, brushing away just the first layer or two of dirt. Jewel-like colors sparkled from underneath, in shades of deep green and blue. Draco hovered for a long moment, dictating to the quill a brief description of the neat geometric shapes he could make out.

Draco continued to work his way up the house, examining each of nearly a dozen glass windows as he went, describing them to the parchment. He reached the top floor of the house and glanced up, noticing for the first time a small window, just a little too high to fit with the floorplan he had in his mind.

 _There’s an attic!_ He almost shouted it aloud, spinning back on his broom to look into the tiny round window. It appeared to be right above the extra bedroom on the fourth floor. There _had_ to be a way into it. Draco could just imagine all of the incredible old pieces right inside the door. Oh, to look into that space!

He brought the broom down to eye-level with the window, rubbing at the dust-caked glass. He could just barely see inside to the rough wood floorboards, strewn with trunks and piles of old things. And there, he could barely make out the flash of colorful lights. Like someone had left a string of Christmas lights on, bright and cheery in the gloom of the attic.

Draco flew quickly down the garden, landing with a neat hop, and banished the broom as he walked, already giddy with the excitement of the attic’s discovery. He dashed in the front door and up the stairs, pausing only when he realized that he had carried in a bit of mud on his way. A quick _Evanseco_ to pre-empt Kreacher’s wailing and he was off again.

The fourth floor was no more revealing to him now than it had been during his first day of exploration. None of the bedrooms had a trapdoor, as many Wizarding homes did. A _Revelio_ did not show the attic, nor a way up into it. Draco even chanced the bathroom, kicking the door open with his foot and poking only the top of his head inside to check for a swing ladder or something. Anything! It had to be there.

Draco cleared his throat, about to summon Kreacher again, when he saw it. There was the tiniest shimmer right in the corner of the white ceiling in the hallway. It sat just above the edge of the stairwell, the tiniest glimpse of the edge of a strong glamour. Draco stepped towards it, narrowing his eyes and forcing himself to see through the magical block.

Sure as daylight, that was a trapdoor. Someone had taken great pains to hide it from view -- this glamour was no child’s play. It took Draco several re-casts to dispel it, and even once he had finally done it, it retained a chameleon-like shade of white, shifting in and out of view as if it were shy.

With a self-celebrating grin, Draco reached over and tugged at the pull for the door, and a small wooden ladder floated down, hovering just over the top of the stairs. Draco had to stretch to reach it, shifting off the landing and over the open stairwell to step onto the first rung and he hesitated for just a moment. It would be a long fall. But the promise of whatever was tucked away in the attic was just far too exciting.

The ladder, thankfully, held up. He pulled himself over the last rung, shifting over the floor until he could sit up, legs dangling over the ladder, and looked around. The attic was even more resplendent and full than his shaded glimpse had made it seem.

He peered across the rough-hewn wood floors, covered in thick red and yellow rugs. He wondered if they would be as soft to stand on as they looked.

Draco pushed up from the floor, wand drawn in case of any attic pixies. Everything here looked pristine, clean and -- though chaotic in how _much_ stuff was here -- it looked rather intentionally placed. Someone wanted this to look this way.

Draco looked over at the colored Christmas lights strung up around the top of the wall. They ran on magic, but how had the house managed to keep them going for six years? And why? Had it merely re-lit them for Draco’s sake? They _were_ beautiful, he had to admit, smiling over at the soft, colorful light they gave off.

He picked over the small pile of things at the center of the room, tugging back thick blankets to reveal a large cabinet. He opened it, and gasped aloud as he found an old case of curiosities -- butterflies carefully encased and preserved, gems and fossils. He bent down to run his fingers over a basket of brightly colored sprite’s eggs, hollowed out and painted to last forever. There was a doxy’s skull, a bicorn horn, and -- could it be? Three thin, silvery strands of unicorn hair. A tiny miniature painting of someone unmistakably from his mother’s family line.

Draco pressed fingers to his mouth to stop from gasping in awe. He hadn’t known there were collectors in the Black line, but perhaps… Perhaps there _was_ something in his blood that drew him to fascinating things, beautiful objects, wondrous stories told in old artifacts. Perhaps he could himself become a collector like this one. He ran a finger over the edge of what he could swear was a Phoenix feather.

He turned away, eyes flashing over the other covered masses. If any were as exciting as this one, _oh_ , the joy of it thrilled through him. He stepped around the great piles in the middle of the room, walking towards the covered counter space at the back, and tugged the large blue tarp away. Beneath, he found a woodworker’s table, tools laid out in neat lines on the back splash. A single chair leg sat on the table, waiting for a repair to be done where the paint had been scraped away. Draco leaned over it, inspecting the neat workmanship on the original.

He could imagine the artist working it over the lathe, turning the wood in neat circles and carving and carving until he had the shape _just right_. And the deep ochre color of the leg -- it must be from one of the formal dining chairs, though Draco hadn’t noticed a chair missing before. He wondered if one of the Order had made this a pet project, abandoned when the war was won.

And perhaps Draco could have left it like that. Perhaps that would have been for the best. If he had looked just a little longer, peered just a little more deeply at that leg.

It all happened so quickly. Draco turned to flash his wand at another tarp, sending it flying with a gust of wind. And that gust happened to pick up a large pile of sawdust, smelling sweet and fresh at the end of the bench. Draco watched in awe-struck horror as the dust swirled up into the air, caught by the wind, and illuminated the body of a man about Draco’s height, standing just at the edge of the bench.

For what felt like a full hour, but was probably only a few seconds, Draco and the man stared at one another. Neither breathed.

The word was half-way out of his mouth before the _crack_ , which was becoming so familiar to Draco, resounded through the space.

“Wait--”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things I want to say at the conclusion of this chapter: 1) if this fic has several "movements," the first being "meeting the Apparition and the House," this is the end of the first movement... we'll be moving on from the more haunting-y type stuff and into some sleuthing next, so if this chapter felt a little repetitive from the last, not to fear! Two new characters are waiting to meet you in the next.
> 
> And 2) On a more serious note, one of the things Draco finds in the attic is essentially a cabinet of curiosity (often actually a room, but in this case, a magically extended cabinet) holding antiquities, relics, and natural history items. While exciting and validating to Draco, it's also (in a larger view) tied to colonialism, often made as byproducts of it. This fic isn't meant to ignore that, and I do believe that an Old Blood family like the Blacks would probably be tied to something along these lines. Even if Draco finds some solace in his connections with the family, it's not without recognition that the Black family remains incredibly morally dubious all the same. Anyway. [Here's an article](https://lubar.medium.com/cabinets-of-curiosity-a134f65c115a), come over to my [tumblr](https://www.the-starryknight.tumblr.com) if you wanna chat more.
> 
> And of course, some fic recs for the day! Today I'll send you off to two non-traditional media items, [Fluxweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluxweed/pseuds/fluxweed)'s incredible texting-based fic _[Adventures in Truth and Texting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27817087)_ with the most wonderful characterizations (literally, HOW are they so well-done??), and [Dustmouth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustmouth/pseuds/dustmouth)'s hilarious, roll off your seat laughing comic series, [_Advent_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27817327) (31 days of this!!!).


	8. It's Five O'Clock Somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consumption of alcohol in this chapter!

_Wednesday, 29 November 2007_

“I have decided that I am _completely_ \-- madly, deeply -- in love with Charls,” Blaise said, tilting his glass in one hand.

Draco raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to go on. This was how their weekly liquid lunches usually went: Draco would recount some detail about his latest project and Blaise and Pansy would feign interest rather unconvincingly. Pansy would update them about the latest in Auror gossip, and Blaise would regale them with tales of his latest conquest. Last week, it was a young man who worked at a flower shop named _Ander_ with beautiful dark curly hair. He smelled of roses, or so Blaise had claimed.

“He’s absolutely _stunning_ , Draco, you wouldn’t even believe his jawline could be _possible_.” Blaise went on, waving his free hand as if to illuminate the illustrious Charls. And Blaise was rather handsome too, in Draco’s opinion, with rich brown skin and those deep amber eyes. He rarely had trouble pulling, even on his most bizarre conquests.

Pansy rolled her eyes at Blaise, playing with the umbrella in her cocktail. “He’s one of the other Aurors, graduated my year,” she informed Draco dryly. “And he’s about as good an Auror as a brick wall might be.”

Draco shrugged. “I’m not sure you need particular intelligence to be Blaise’s type, hmm?”

“I did have that pash on you in sixth year, didn’t I?” Blaise asked, eyes flashing. Draco flicked a small stinging hex in his direction, offering a look of innocence at Blaise’s glare.

This week, they had taken up a table at the little tiki bar on the corner of Ninth and Nottingham. Pansy had regaled them with tall tales about the “incredible appetizers, luscious cocktails, and gorgeous waitstaff,” when she had suggested it last week. The bar had not lived up to her expectations. Draco’s spritzer was too heavy on the prosecco, and the calamari was far too chewy.

And to make it all worse, the staff had _already_ put up garish Christmas decor, covering the walls in green holly and little santa hats. While it _might_ have been tasteful (emphasis on _might_ ) on simple walls, the effect of the decor on top of the bohemian flowers and dried grasses was downright garish. Draco felt a bit nauseated just looking at it all.

“Pansy’s got news,” Blaise added, nodding at her. And Draco ought to have picked up on it, if he hadn’t been so absorbed in replaying the instant in the attic. She _never_ wore blazers, except when something exciting was afoot. And today, her cropped black hair lay just above the collar of a deep maroon blazer, offset by the tall black collar of her turtleneck. It all made her pale skin look even more delicate.

“I’m on a proper case,” she said into her cocktail, swirling the umbrella around the ice.

Draco could see how much she was biting back her excitement, mouth tight at the edges but twitching towards a full grin. “Oh, only a proper case. Isn’t that what Aurors are meant to do?”

Blaise snorted, and Draco caught his eye. They shared a knowing look before Draco returned his gaze seriously to Pansy. She could be simultaneously the most confident, cutthroat person Draco knew, and eminently self-conscious, sure that her role in the Aurors would end at any time. And perhaps, even though the world had become more welcoming to their sort, she was right to be nervous. 

"A proper case, though," Draco said, more seriously, sitting forward at the table. "That's a long time coming."

"Oh, you know," Pansy drawled, affecting an unbothered expression, "I only needed years of training and _practice_ and all that muck." She had had so many more years and co-led cases than nearly all those in her training year combined. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. But that was the way of things for those whose wartime reputations followed them.

* * *

“So I’ve mentioned that I’m doing a spot of work for the Historical Society, right?” Draco began, grinning slyly over his Aperol spritz. Blaise and Pansy exchanged a look.

“Only about a dozen times, doll,” Pansy answered.

“Well,” Draco went on, ignoring her, as he usually did. “I have _news_. _Exciting_ news.”

“Do go on,” Blaise said, giving Pansy a pointed look. She turned back to the menu, biting back a grin. “We’re just absolutely eager to hear about it.”

Draco frowned at his sarcasm, but elected to continue. If he stopped every time Blaise gave him a bit of snark, he would never tell a complete story. “The Order of the Phoenix headquarters is _completely_ haunted.”

Blaise nearly spat out his ale, coughing politely into a napkin instead. “Haunted, you say?”

“Oh yes,” Draco nodded. “There’s some sort of _man_ lurking around.”

“A man,” Pansy echoed.

“Are you both only going to repeat back what I say? I’ll find myself some other lunch date if that’s the case.”

“You wouldn’t ever,” Pansy frowned at him.

He huffed a dramatic sigh, shrugging his shoulders and letting the stem of his glass droop from his hands. “I don’t know, Pans, I might just have to.”

“Shut up,” she snarked, reaching over to snag a piece of fruit off his plate. She put the strawberry in her mouth, an eyebrow raised.

And so, Draco recounted the bathroom, the bedroom, and the attic, becoming more animated as he described it. He might have left out some of his own fear, of course, describing it as a sort of “knowing apprehension,” but it seemed that Pansy and Blaise knew him well enough to see right through it anyway.

“And there he was, clear as day,” Draco gestured as if outlining the shape of the man in sawdust, “As if the dust was clinging to every edge of him, holding him there in the air. I tried to speak to him--”

“Speaking to ghosts,” Blaise interrupted. “Always a _great_ idea.”

“It was perfectly logical, actually. The elf had made it sound as though it was all the _house_ doing these things to me, but that didn’t quite add up with everything I’d seen.”

Pansy set her glass down on the table, leaning forward. “Right, with the specter in the bathroom, and all that. An old house definitely couldn’t be causing all these weird things to happen around… said house.”

Draco frowned at her. Neither of them were taking him at all seriously, and it echoed his conversation with Maison the day before. It wasn’t his fault Bill hadn’t seen whatever it was, and hadn’t felt that awful charm. Surely someone had to believe that he wasn’t make it all up. He turned his glare on his friends, and Pansy had the decency to look slightly remorseful. Blaise never apologized anyway, so it wasn’t such a surprise that he didn’t do the same.

“It does sound a bit mad,” Blaise said quietly. “But not the maddest thing ever.”

“It’s interesting,” Pansy added. She had a considering look on her face, wand hand tapping on the table, her neat fingernails rattling. “You keep saying _man_ and not ghost.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “It must be a ghost. No _person_ could lurk around a house like that and not be seen.”

“Right,” Pansy nodded, “Only... sawdust would have blown straight through a ghost, no? And the fog? How do you explain that?”

“This is why we keep the Auror around,” Blaise cheered, lifting his ale.

“The only reason,” Draco nodded.

Pansy glared at them both. Her finger-tapping got quicker and she seemed lost in thought for a long moment before she returned to them, dark eyes flashing to Draco’s.

“I can’t recall a single case at Grimmauld. Not a single person who might have died actually _on_ the property.” During her first years after training, Pansy had spent a great deal of time processing old records from the War years, cold cases and completed ones alike. The project had been given to her as an entry-level bit of paper-pushing, but had continued long past her classmates’ rookie year. Unfair as it was, it made her quite an expert on the cases from that time, both war-related and not.

“And after the War?” Draco asked pensively.

She shook her head. “You know as well as I do that that property’s been empty since the Order dissolved.”

Draco was beginning to get rather frustrated with the circles this place was turning him through. He took a long drink of the Aperol, letting the bright citrus sit in his mouth for a long moment. Blaise interrupted his thoughts.

“Not quite empty, though,” he offered. “Right?”

Pansy and Draco looked at him, neither sure what he meant. He looked between them and shrugged. “You hear things, when you’re listening to the right people.”

“What did you hear?” Draco snapped. He had been under the impression it had been empty too. But if someone _had_ lived there any more recently than that --

“Potter lived there, didn’t he? During his training, all the way up until…” he trailed off. They all knew what had ended Harry Potter’s time.

“I didn’t know that,” Pansy put in, pouting slightly. Pansy’s rumor mill was quite good, albeit less so now that she was fully an Auror. But Blaise had a way of hearing all the tiniest, best-kept secrets, and he always had.

“He _did_ inherit it,” Draco mused. “But I had assumed he lived with the other trainees.”

Blaise shrugged, and the motion was somehow so much more suave on his shoulders. “It’s not a requirement, is it? To stay on-base during training?” Pansy shook her head.

Blaise took a sip of his drink, eyeing them both with a spark in his gaze. “It’s only word-of-mouth, of course. No way to know if it’s true.”

Draco caught Pansy grinning at him, and he narrowed his eyes at her. “What is it?”

She laughed under her breath, draining the last of her cocktail. “It’s just that the last time I’ve seen you this excited about something _other_ than furniture, it was also because of Perfect Potter.”

He levelled a glare at her darker than her hair and set his glass down on the table with a heavy thud. Draco pressed both fingers into his temple, tapping them against his forehead with a bone-deep sigh. “Please tell me you are not implying that I’m being haunted by Harry Potter.”

“That,” Pansy began, donning an innocent expression, “Isn’t what I’m _not_ implying.”

“Dear Salazar,” Draco muttered, letting his head fall fully into his palms. “I need a new job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today, I'll send you off to [PhenomenalAsterisk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhenomenalAsterisk/pseuds/PhenomenalAsterisk)'s series of four short fics, beginning with _[Scenes from a Malfoy-Potter Christmas](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020/works/27818347)_. With a rich ensemble cast in this first one, it's such a joy to read and is certain to put a smile on your face. I can't wait to check out the rest of the series!


	9. A Cold Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visiting Deputy Head Auror Ron Weasley goes... interestingly, to say the least.

_Thursday, 29 November 2007_

Draco was not entirely certain what had made him do it, leap off the elevator at the _second_ floor, rather than stay on until the fifth, but here he was, striding down the hall towards the Auror Headquarters, folded resignation letter tucked into his pocket. He wouldn’t _actually_ quit, and Maison was rather used to his strops these days, but it wouldn’t do to arrive to her office without the right props.

Of course, he was nowhere near her office at the moment. Instead, he was about two meters away from walking into the _worst_ space in the entire Ministry, all because he had let Pansy get into his head about Potter.

A young woman with a long black plait of hair and full Auror robes shouldered past him, giving him a glare as she stepped over the threshold and into the morass of gray and maroon. Well, too late now. Draco followed her path, sliding past two Aurors floating boxes marked ‘Evidence’ as he scanned the room quickly.

He nearly yelped out loud when Pansy grabbed his arm, tugging him around to face her. She wore another blazer today, a sign of high hopes, Draco was sure. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart with a quick countdown.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she muttered, eyes narrowed at him.

“Quitting my job,” he shot back, eyes flashing at the rapid movement swirling around them. He didn’t know how Pansy could stand it, so many people shifting in and out, evidence boxes and patronuses darting around, Ministry memos flying so quickly, and _so_ much bright maroon it was already starting to make his eyes hurt. He was increasingly grateful for the soft navy blue color of his own department.

“Are not,” she frowned. “What do you _want_?”

Draco hesitated, looking down at his hands as they tapped against his pant leg. She sighed heavily beside him, pressing a hand to her forehead as if he had just caused her a headache.

“It’s Potter, right? You’ve got it in your head now, haven’t you,” she shook her head, dark hair flashing. “This is what you always do, isn’t it? Get yourself all interested and down the hole you go.”

“I’m not _interested,_ ” he muttered.

“Right,” she rolled her eyes at him. “You’re just down here on a lark. In the one place in this entire building you never visit.”

He glanced up, catching the brightness in her eyes and looked away quickly. “Do you think there’s any merit to it? Some reason he might be stuck at Grimmauld as a ghost?”

For a long moment, Pansy said absolutely nothing, staring up at the ceiling as if the memos flying above might come down and give her an answer. Then she looked at him, and Draco _knew_ , just _knew,_ before she even said it that he ought to just march right on out of the Headquarters and back up to level five and stick his resignation letter straight on Maison’s desk.

“There’s only one person who could tell you if there might be merit to this theory,” she said, laughter in her voice.

“Please tell me it’s not--”

“Deputy Head Auror Ronald Weasley.”

Draco seriously considered Apparating away right then and there. Straight through the Ministry wards, get himself arrested, he didn’t even care.

“Walk with me,” she continued, turning away with a Slytherin smile. Draco reluctantly followed, wondering if dragging his feet would get them there any less slow. “He’s got a proper office, all the D-H’s do.”

As they neared the office door, Draco noticed that the hubbub of the floor grew quieter, as if there were charms drawing the noise in closer to the entrance and away from these doors. Pansy slowed down, shifting into a more formal stance, arms pressed behind her back in a strict hold. And Draco echoed that, holding his shoulders more firmly. _Malfoys do_ not _slouch,_ Narcissa would always say, pressing firm fingers against his shoulder blades.

His breath caught in his throat as Pansy raised a fist to rap her knuckles twice on the door. She shot him a slightly apprehensive look, betraying just a touch of the old anxiety that they had shared so much more openly back at school. It was gone before he could blink, replaced with a firm set to her jaw as the door swung open.

Draco’s first thought was that it was perhaps not the best plan to allow Deputy Heads to pick out clothing _outside_ the uniform maroon. And his second thought was that he was _so deeply grateful_ that Bill did not have the same fashion problems as his brother.

Ron Weasley stood in the doorway to his office clad in the most ridiculous Christmas sweater Draco had ever seen. It was garish and green and red with a giant bow across the front. He actually thought that proper maroon robes might look _better_ than this thing, despite clashing with Weasley’s bright hair. He looked him up and down once more, eyes fixating on the words on the sweater.

“Jingle my--” he muttered under his breath, and cut himself off, flicking his gaze back to Weasley’s bright-eyed expression.

“Everything alright, Parkinson?” Weasley asked, looking between the two of them. “Wait-- Malfoy’s not a suspect, is he?”

Slightly aghast, Draco held up his wrists, firmly unbound. “Most certainly _am not_ , thank you very much--”

Pansy lifted a hand to silence him and he bit back the rest of his retort. “I’m very sorry for interrupting you, sir,” she said in the most obsequious voice Draco had ever heard come out of her lips. He barely held himself back from outright _staring_ at her.

“You’d only do it if it were important,” Weasley added evenly. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms over that garish sweater.

“It’s just,” she looked towards Draco, sliding him a wink as she did, “Draco here had a few questions for you, and he was wondering if you might have some time in your calendar coming up to fit him in.”

Weasley raised his eyebrows, the bright red shooting up into his hair. “ _Malfoy_ has questions for _me_?” he asked.

“It’s about a cold case,” Draco added quietly, running his hand over the fabric of his trouser leg to ground himself. “For one of my house projects.”

Weasley nodded knowingly. “Bill mentioned you were working on something together, but he was a bit cagey about it all.” Draco looked at Pansy, wondering if he was meant to say any more, but Weasley went on. “Well, come on in. I’ve got a minute ‘fore Robards is looking for me, and tomorrow’s gone for free time.”

Draco shot Pansy a wide-eyed silent _thank you_ as she shoved him towards the door and spun off, maroon robes flaring behind her. He would have to buy her a very nice lunch to thank her. That is, if he survived an entire conversation with the younger Weasley.

He settled down in a wide and surprisingly comfortable armchair across from Weasley’s desk and surveyed the room. There was a large bowl of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor on the desk, and approximately six dozen file folders of varying colors stacked in precarious arrangements, and three, no four Chudley Cannons coffee mugs. Without coffee in them.

“Look, Weasley,” Draco began, trying to keep his discomfort out of his voice. These interactions were often prefaced with a spot of awkwardness, even if Draco had already made his amends, nearly four years ago when Weasley had a far less private office.

Weasley cleared his throat, giving Draco a firm look. Draco looked down at his hands, running one over the other in a soft, soothing circle. “I won’t pretend to like you, and I’m not about to expect the same from you, mate,” Weasley said.

“But you’ll speak with me,” Draco said quietly.

He nodded, with that same good-natured expression that Bill often wore, and Draco relaxed slightly in the seat.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about _the_ case,” Draco began, treading carefully..

“Which case?”

Draco was slightly taken aback. “The,” he paused, collecting his words, “Well, the case you and Potter were working on, when-- Well, you know.”

“When Harry disappeared,” Weasley finished, a little wistfully, and Draco nodded, relieved. He wasn’t nearly as upset as Draco had expected him to be, but it _had_ been five years. “What about it?”

“Everything,” Draco said, faster than he could think. “Well, I suppose, something Pansy mentioned might have slightly piqued my interest.”

“And you think this relates to your house thingy.” Weasley reached into the bowl of Bertie Bott’s, munching on a handful without seeming to care about the flavors. Draco’s eyes widened infinitesimally.

“It is _possible_ that it relates. Tangentially.” He avoided Weasley’s sharp gaze, looking around at the mess of the office. There were at least four different jackets and cloaks scattered on various pieces of furniture, most notably on the bookshelf, which had been decorated with various Christmas baubles.

Weasley seemed unfazed. “Tangentially,” he echoed, looking over at Draco. “See, when I hear someone say that, I think they either mean that it doesn’t relate at all and they’re looking for an excuse to bug me.” He put his hands together on the desk, tilting the chair back on its legs. “Or, what they’re asking about is the main thing, and they just don’t want to admit it.”

Draco began to protest, but Weasley cut him off quickly. “I don’t think you’re here just to bug me, ‘cause you would have picked a much better day, and you wouldn’t have brought Parkinson in on it.”

“So.” He opened his palms to Draco, eyebrows raised. “ _What_ does Harry’s case have to do with Grimmauld Place?”

“How did you know--” Draco cut himself off, but Weasley finished the sentence for him.

“See, that’s the thing. I know my brothers. Bill’s not usually so quiet about a new project, especially when he can complain about a certain reformed Slytherin.” He shrugged, plucking two violently pink Bertie Bott’s beans from the jar and popping them into his mouth. “So I cornered him.”

“You cornered him,” Draco was aghast, imagining Bill stuck in a corner in what could only be a chaotic house, this Weasley at his throat.

“Bill’s got these noble ideas,” Ron said, waving a hand, “About protecting us all from the bad memories.” He didn’t need to go on. There was an entry in _Defying the Dark Lord_ for each of the deceased Order members, and Fred Weasley’s had been quite memorable. Draco had a new appreciation for Bill’s willingness to come back to the old headquarters.

“What did Bill tell you? About the project.” Draco asked, anxious to change the subject.

At this, Weasley fully grinned, snapping the chair legs back down to the floor with a mirthful expression. “Only that you’re convinced that you’re being haunted.”

“There _is_ something there,” Draco said petulantly, the image of the man in the attic replaying in front of his eyes. He sighed. “I’m just not certain if it’s a ghost, or a corporeal element of the house.”

“And this has to do with Harry?” Weasley layered on the skepticism in his voice, almost leering at Draco.

Draco shrugged, feeling the air let out of him. “I can’t be certain about any of it. It was just something Blaise had mentioned, and I… Honestly, Weasley, I hadn’t even meant to come in here. I was on the way up to my office and I found myself here.”

“Zabini’s still in London? I thought he was off gallivanting in France, that’s what Gin told me.”

“He’s in London when he has to be,” Draco answered, “Namely, for our weekly drinks, and to update me on the important social news.”

“To gossip.”

Draco ignored the snide comment and suppressed an eye-roll. _Ridiculous, moralistic Gryffindors._ “Blaise mentioned that Potter had been living at Grimmauld Place. During your training.”

Weasley did not react, visibly holding his chin tight, it seemed, to avoid giving anything away. “And what about it?”

“Well it sounds a bit odd now, doesn’t it?” Draco asked, staring down at his hands, “I suppose I thought it might be possible _Potter_ was the ghost.”

The sounds of Weasley’s laughter quite literally reverberated off of the walls of the little office, grating on Draco. He shut his eyes for the briefest of moments, drawing his magic into his hand for a sharp stinging curse, or to fling the door open, or, or--

“So now you’re thinking Harry is _haunting_ you. Oh, Merlin, it’s just too good.”

“I didn’t come here for this,” Draco said, shoving the chair back as he stood with a bit more force than was necessary.

Weasley waved a hand, shaking his head, still chuckling to himself. “No, no, Malfoy, it’s alright,” he nodded to the chair, “It _is_ just a bit mad, don’t you think? Hearths going out all around you, bathrooms steaming up.”

Draco cleared his throat, stepping over to the chair but not quite sitting down yet. “I’ll admit, it is _slightly_ humorous.” He frowned, distracted for a moment. He hadn’t mentioned the hearth to Bill.

“Slightly humorous,” Weasley shook his head at him. “Look, sit down, mate, and I’ll give you the files about Harry’s disappearance.”

Draco deigned to settle back into the chair, now sitting at the front edge, ankles crossed beneath him. He leaned forward, waiting for Weasley to go on.

“It was our first gig, right?” he said, “They rushed us right on through training in two years flat with all that _‘You’re war heroes, you don’t really need this’_ shit -- which, in retrospect, I really ought to have listened when ‘Mione said we ought to go back for NEWTs.”

“So they, what,” Draco asked, “Sent two green recruits off on a dangerous mission? Sounds oddly familiar.”

Weasley shook his head, waving a hand, “It was never supposed to be dangerous at all, see, it was a shit job that no one wanted to do, so we got sent off on it.”

“We were meant to be chatting with a suspect about some weird potions ingredients coming into the market. Swear on Merlin, this guy was supposed to be completely cooperative. And _he_ was. That wasn’t the issue.”

Draco leaned forward even further. “You’re killing me, Weasley. What happened?”

“Something exploded,” Weasley shrugged. “In the back of the shop. And there I was, flat on my back, covered in this disgusting goo and Harry and the man disappeared.”

“That’s awful,” Draco murmured, shaking his head. His mind was tugged unwillingly to Crabbe’s hand slipping through his own in a fiery burst. To lose a friend in such a way was a special kind of agony.

“I can give you some of the files,” Weasley said. “They kept right on about it all for several months, you know. Doing what they were supposed to and all. But the suspect turned up obliviated, and the case was already dead cold before that.”

“And no Potter.”

“Nope.”

A pensieve silence stretched between them for a long moment, and an idea hit Draco. He looked up, catching Weasley’s bright eyes. “That’s odd,” he mused, “You keep calling it a _disappearance_ and not a murder.”

“ _Is_ that odd?”

Weasley was a good Auror after all, with his leading questions and careful cageyness. Draco found that it was much like playing chess, offering a clue while disguising his real intentions. Seeming to divulge everything by offering Draco the files, while keeping his actual thoughts hidden. Well, two could play that game.

“Isn’t Potter dead?” Draco asked. It was all over the papers, and had been as much a fact in wizarding society as Voldemort’s death or Diagon Alley’s ghosts.

“That’s what all the case notes say. You’ll see it,” Weasley levitated the stack of folders over and copied them, floating a small mountain over to Draco. “It’s plain as day in the paperwork.”

Draco took the folders, shrinking them and sliding them into his outer pocket. He settled back into the chair, running his thumb over the tips of his other fingers. “He was your partner. What do _you_ say?”

Weasley would not meet his eyes, and his hands had become anxious, shifting things around on the messy desk. “He’s gone, one way or another. And that’s that.”

Draco started to speak again, but Weasley waved him off. “Enough, Malfoy,” he said, in a voice far more imposing than it had ever been in school. “Take the files. Make your own opinions. I don’t care.”

He was waved off once again when he opened his mouth, and Weasley directed his wand at the door. Draco stood up with as much dignity as he could manage and stepped toward the door. He glanced behind him, frowning slightly. “Thank you, Weasley. I do appreciate it, quite genuinely.”

He stepped out the door, but would swear that as he heard it snick shut behind him, Weasley said, “Good luck.”

Perhaps it _was_ luck that he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's got a lovely treat for you in [ActorPotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActorPotter/pseuds/ActorPotter)'s "drabbles" (really, they're short fics each on their own!), beginning with _[The First Snowfall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27827017)_ and with such a delightful range of stories: fluff, smut, hurt/comfort and healing, and so so much more. Give it a read!


	10. The Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco reviews the case files from Ron Weasley

_Friday, 30 November 2007_

Draco stepped over the threshold at Grimmauld Place with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He drew off his large navy cape, shaking off the tiny dusting of fresh snow, and hung it over the coat rack by the door. His brown dress shoes clicked neatly over the tile foyer floor, but the whole house felt newly still. Could it be true? 

“Harry Potter,” he shouted into the house, and immediately felt foolish, pressing a hand to his lips. Ghost or no, it would do no good for Draco to look so ridiculous, standing at the base of the stairs and shouting himself silly. He ran a hand through his hair to calm himself, attending to the texture of the strands beneath his fingertips to draw his attention, to ground him. 

The house was silent. Not even Kreacher was about, as far as Draco could see or hear. He walked through the foyer, keeping his bag with him, the shrunken case-files from Weasley tucked inside. Draco’s fingers rubbed over the handle of his wand, a well-worn spot on the wood. It was a comfort in his hand, as he stared around, waiting for the apparition to reappear.

It didn’t, and the house remained quiet. Draco brushed a hand over the small card table with the delicate silver vase. It sat in the foyer just below the stairs, with a simple moving-life painting hung above it. In the painting, a jug of wine poured itself into a small red goblet, marked with the Black crest. Sticks of cinnamon and anise seeds crinkled in the light, tumbling from an overturned goblet. Flowers bloomed in shades of white and red and gold paint, and a small misshapen orange sliced itself and re-formed over and over. 

And the frame. Draco found himself admiring the craftsmanship, though the frame was far too late to match the original. He flashed a quick cleaning charm over his hands to remove the last traces of the snow outside, and lifted a hand to brush over the fine stain color of the frame. It was smooth to the touch, perfectly pristine, and absolutely exquisite. Someone had taken great care to make this frame, anachronisms be damned. He wondered briefly if the woodworker in the attic had created it. 

“You’re lovely,” he whispered to the painting, smiling lightly to himself as three deep red carnations bloomed shyly at him. 

As he walked up the stairs, he found himself murmuring quietly to the house about the quality of the beautifully carved bannister. It was a habit he had picked up while working on an old manor house in Surrey that had hidden little miniature paintings about. The owner, three generations back, had been a renowned painter and had painted them or added them in so many nooks and crannies that there was no easy way to find them all. But the more he spoke out loud, murmuring to his auto-quill or commenting on the “frankly disturbing” degradation of the exposed beams, the more tiny portrait voices he heard. 

Once he had figured out the trick, he found nearly fifty of them in a single afternoon, and in places he never would have thought to check. The habit stuck, as habits often do.

Upstairs, Draco paused outside the library, cautious about touching the doorknob. His hand still smarted from where it had been burned and then frozen. He looked around, frowning, for any sign of the phantom, but saw none. Not that he really expected to see it, as it always seemed to remain invisible until it was terrifying him. He cast at the door, letting it creak open with a cheerful groan. The room clearly had not been opened in years, and Draco coughed at the spray of dust he had not expected. Few of the other rooms had been so dust-covered.

He pushed inside, scanning for any signs of life, but nothing stirred as the dust settled. He walked over to the wide wooden table, setting his bag down gently, and peered at the massive, ornate shelves. They stretched nearly two stories, and bracketed every wall of the room but for the few windows. Light poured in from these, golden through the age-tinted glass. Draco didn’t breathe for a long moment, letting the awe at so many incredible tomes surround him. 

When he did breathe again, he smelled the familiar fragrance of old books, of wood glue and vellum pages unopened for years. Draco walked to one shelf, where all of the books were stored spine-in, and ran a finger through the dust, scanning the titles scrawled on their fore-edges. One caught his eye and he tugged it free, pulling gently from each side until it slid neatly into his hand. The thin ribbon of a locking charm followed it deep into the recesses of the shelf.

Draco set it on the table, and the locking charm shifted to latch onto a bar on the table itself. He summoned a cradle, opening the book gently into it. On the first page, he found the neat, ancient handwriting of “Apollo Lycoreuſ Prewett Black, firſt family Librarian.” He paged through it, and found the title. The text was an account of the Black family history, and Draco felt his hands begin to shake. 

Listed in neat type in a table at the start of the book, there was Lycoreus Black I, the son of Apollo, and there was Lucretia, and Andromeda and Regulus Arcturus and so many names. He let his fingers brush over _Narcissa_ , and there, close to the end of the index, his own name. He could feel the deep imprint of the letter on the page where the type had set itself in, and let his mind wander, imagining a magical print shop alight with moving type and the thick scent of ink. 

Draco didn’t open to his own name, afraid of what it might hold. It was unusual to find such a text with the inbuilt charms so sturdy after nearly six centuries, and without the customary scorching charms when one has offended the family badly enough. He wondered if his own name might have been destroyed, if the charm had been there. 

The near-silent creak of the door had him freezing over the book. He did not turn, afraid of alerting the phantom, but let his eyes slide to the door slowly as not to get caught. Heart loud in his ears, he flipped a page over, blind to the content. He watched the dust shift subtly by the door, as if someone were walking inside, disturbing its path and leaving a wake of space in-between. Draco glanced down at the floor, and could see just the edge of a footprint marked on the floor, almost invisible.

He turned another page without looking at the book, mind whirling. Would he be attacked again? Would the phantom show itself once more? How long had it been watching him? Draco wondered briefly if it had almost _wanted_ to be caught, that time in the attic, when Draco had seen _him_ in the sawdust as clear as day. Perhaps he was imagining things, but it was almost as though the phantom was _curious_.

They were at an impasse. Draco could continue to turn the pages of this book, could continue to pretend as though he thought he were complete alone. He could confront it, and for a moment, he considered that choice. And then, he realized he might be more afraid of it disappearing than of it attacking him. In fact, it had never really outright set out to hurt him. Watched, certainly, lurking in the shadows, just out of eyesight. And the bathroom had been truly frightening, but it had felt like exactly that: a fright, intended to scare him away. 

Barely breathing, he shut the book with a gentle thud, the heavy wooden cover swinging shut. Draco raised his wand to float it to the shelf, sending the book cradle back across the room too. 

He stood, slowly and without any sudden movements, drawing his wand, and leaning over the table to tug the shrunken files out of his small leather bag. If there was some chance that this phantom was actually a real person, perhaps their curiosity would draw them closer. Draco found that his own curiosity was running rampant, desperate as he was to know the watcher.

The folder opened on the table, he began to read the notes, levitating each page as he finished it, magic lighting it up with highlighted annotations. Within an hour, Draco was lost in the narrative, surrounded by a web of interconnected notes and lines and ideas, a literal map across the years-old case. 

Weasley and Potter had been tasked with a brief, easy investigation at an ingredients store. Though it was related to a much larger and more dangerous case, this particular investigation should have been easy. Potter had found this witness two weeks prior to The Incident, had brought the lead to the then-Deputy Head Auror and gotten himself and Weasley put on the case. 

There had been a rash of new and highly dangerous potions on the market, dealt in shady deals and entirely shrouded from the law enforcement. Draco had already begun to piece together a theory about the mind behind it -- the case notes pointed to a glaringly obvious suspect that the Aurors had largely neglected. Potter had proposed that this seller might have records leading them to the brewery. He was already known to the Aurors, and the notes make it clear that he was meant to be an easy, cooperative interviewee.

It’s Weasley’s account that really throws it all into question for him. There’s something just not-right about the way he’s described the blast. How they walked in and Potter claims he could “just tell” things would not go well, and so Weasley stayed behind him. How it all just seemed a little too easy. The explosion that was triggered by, allegedly, some unknown substance. Harry’s immediate disappearance afterward. The too-neat disappearance, and subsequent reappearance of the shop-keep, carefully obliviated. It was a bad crime, if it even was such. 

And it was odd. The way Weasley described the explosion-- quite distinctly -- as a “mushrooming purple fog” and an “oozing orange goo” which in combination can be caused by only two things, one of which should have entirely incapacitated Weasley (it didn’t) and the other, called Cache’s Cloak, was a completely harmless potion meant for a quick getaway. 

And perhaps Draco didn’t know as much as the Aurors, but it just seemed so obvious that it wasn’t a properly violent explosion. The damage to the shop was minimal at best. Weasley barely lost his footing. If someone had genuinely wanted to hurt Potter, they wouldn’t have used such a method. It didn’t make enough sense.

Draco had formed three theories by the time the entire contents was spread out in the air around him. He turned on his heel as he watched the papers shift and reconnect as he processed and imagined the possibilities, denying each one.

First theory. It was as the Aurors believed. The ingredients salesman had cottoned on to the investigation and had kidnapped Potter to pre-empt the Aurors. Except... the shopkeeper wasn’t a likely suspect -- hadn’t been, even before Potter and Weasley walked into the shop, and was even less so when he turned up obliviated. It wasn’t an easy thing, obliviating oneself, and the man’s activities since (returning to the shop and getting back to work) didn’t track with him being the main culprit.

Draco flicked his wand, drawing a set of papers in the air to the forefront. Their web was slightly tighter, woven together and criss-crossed all over. 

Second theory. Some other lackey knew that Potter and Weasley were going to visit the supplier. The storekeeper could have known something significant, and could have told the Aurors, potentially risking the larger potioneering syndicate. It _was_ possible. But that would mean that there was a leak in the department that might have alerted the leaders about Potter’s lead. And there had been another, much larger raid planned later that same week, and led by far more experienced Aurors. That raid would have put them far more at risk, and likely would have resulted in at least one major arrest. Why would an informed crime group target the weakest and least involved Aurors and risk exposing a mole? 

Draco had a few odd ideas that he quickly dismissed: A publicity stunt gone wrong, a genuine accident, or some cock-up on Weasley’s behalf. But none of these followed out logically. There was only one theory that he couldn’t fault.

Harry Potter had faked his own disappearance. 

Whether the shopkeeper was in the know or not, Potter had somehow orchestrated the Cache’s Cloak and taken the keeper with him. He could have done the obliviation himself, quick and easy, and sent the man back. It would make sense as to why the keeper had gone on as if he had never had a plan to attack anyone. It would make sense why the syndicate hadn’t then gone after Weasley or the keeper, if neither of them had any real information that could put them at risk. 

It just didn’t make sense as to _why_. 

And _where_ Potter had gone, if he had disappeared and not been killed. 

Although, he had a theory about the latter. He slid his eyes to the corner of the room, where the phantom had been when last he had noticed the dust pat shifting about, moved by an invisible wind. Draco mentally weighed his options. And then he turned fully towards the phantom and said in his clearest possible voice, heart in his throat,

“Harry Potter lives at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.”

At once, the floating documents fell to the floor in a flurry of paperwork, files flying every which way. In the chaos of flashing parchment, Draco heard the library door swing shut with a _snick_. He smiled to himself, a private victory. Though, he was not certain that this meant he should be any less frightened of the man who stalked the halls of this house.

For the first time since he had set foot on the property, he felt almost at ease. He could hear the thrum of house magic under his skin, playing through the woodgrain of the table, dancing up along the sky-high bookshelves, blinking through the motes of dust, and alight in the patterns of the wallpaper. It felt as though the house had finally begun to accept his presence. As if the new knowledge of the house’s true master came with tacit permission for him to continue work. 

It would be an easy companionship, Draco and the house. The harder question was what he ought to do about Harry Potter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Zeitgeistic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeitgeistic/pseuds/zeitgeistic) has a fascinating Advent fic, so I'll send you off to read _[Or.](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020/works/27822388)_ , a brilliant soul-bonding story with a twist I've never read before. Chock full of all the great angst, really interesting plot twists, and so much more, I'm loving this story so far!


	11. Dinner for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin - time for dinner! See endnotes for a recipe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: for alcohol consumed!

_Wednesday, 5 December 2007_

In the four days that followed the incident in the library, Draco took inventory in two upstairs bedrooms, the main floor sitting room, and the tea room on the second floor. He was avoiding the room that smelled distinctly like animals and hay, rather certain that it wouldn’t contain any exciting items to add to his lists.

He found one room, large and with wide, vaulted ceilings, that had the most gorgeous tapestry. It was woven by hand, with inbuilt charms to add as the family went on. Draco found Narcissa, and his own name, woven in gold and greens towards the bottom edge. He traced their line upwards, pressing a hand to the awful scorch mark marring his cousin’s name. Draco could guess who it was, running a finger over the burned threads. _Sirius Black._ The dog star.

Draco had heard the name in the Malfoy house enough to associate it with _traitor_ and _murderer_ and a host of worst epithets. But he knew better now, as he did about a great many things. He found himself inexplicably emotional about the scorch-spot, drawn to this distant family member. How the Malfoys and the Blacks had mischaracterized him.

It was in that room, looking at the tapestry, _caressing_ it, that he saw a flash of a hair, dark and curly and ridiculously _familiar_. Draco had felt a gaze on him from the moment he had set foot back into Number Twelve after the library. It was as if he could see someone right out of the corner of his eye, gone the second he looked too close.

He caught him, sometimes. Just the corner of a shoe depressing a rug in just the right way, or the way that light pouring through a window seemed fractured, like looking at it through a glass of water. Or the way the dust shifted, as if accommodating a person when Draco could see only empty space. Once, Draco even thought he caught the swirl of a hand just _there_ when he approached the bedroom marked _R.A.B._ It was only slightly less chilling the fourth or fifth time it happened than it was the first.

Their silent entente consumed his thoughts, drawing his mind from the rooms and his inventories. He found himself pushing through doors and leaving them open behind him, leaving little piles of dust rather than cleaning them, and watching the rugs for footprints. It felt like a little dance between them. Draco would turn just _so_ , and _he_ would move just barely out of view.

It had all led to a plan of attack that was rather Slytherin. Draco was admittedly quite proud of it. He had done his research. He’d gone down to the Manor kitchens and asked the head cook, Faline, to show him how to do it properly. The little elf had sized him up, head to toe, and set him to chopping bread. Draco had even gone all the way to the grocer’s at Diagon Alley and purchased his own selection of ingredients.

Except. Draco was standing in the huge kitchen with the giant, overwhelming stove, trying to relight it with his wand, and it all felt like such a stupid plan. _Make food to encourage him to stay in one place long enough to try to get a look,_ Draco repeated his plan like a mantra in his mind. It was a necessary reminder of why he was putting himself through the mess that cooking was certainly going to be. _Just to confirm if it’s Potter or not._

Draco was not sure if he wanted it to be Potter or _someone_ else entirely. It was a rather convoluted theory. And if it _was_ him, then that would mean that Draco was trapped in a giant house with an extremely powerful wizard who hated him. And who he hated, of course. Couldn’t forget that.

Draco touched his wand to the bottle of port, uncorking it with a soft _pop_ , and took a hearty swig straight from the bottle. It was too sweet for his taste, like eating a handful of blackberries or chocolate, but it still had a lovely round flavor. And did nice things to his nerves when he felt the small rush of warmth in his throat.

Draco cast about for a dessert wine glass, and found instead a rather ugly mug. Surely this house would have some proper glasses? Which Black family member had managed to find this garish thing? It looked as if someone had put a snowman upside down and turned it into a cup. It was just _wrong_.

He flicked his wand with a demanding _“Accio”_ and two finally appeared, though he had only meant to summon the one. He poured some for himself with a flourish. In a moment of daring, he plucked up the second glass and added some to it too.

 _“Port!” Faline had said, smacking his hand when he had gone for the bottle of white._ “ _Does sir want a proper French Onion soup, or one sir could find in a can?”_

Draco, of course, wanted a proper soup. When Faline had made it, the smell of caramelizing onions and thick gruyere cheese had filled the kitchen -- the whole East wing, in fact -- with the smells of butter and rich port layered on the air.

He took a sip of his port as he eyed the second glass on the table. It hadn’t moved. He pressed himself against the stove, surveying the room. He saw no sign of the phantom in the kitchen, but then again, it was one of the most well-kept rooms in the house. There was never any dust, and the entry door was impossibly un-squeaky. Draco had left the door propped open when he came in. As he looked across the room, he wondered if that had been a wise choice.

Frustrated and embarrassed, he turned back to the pile of onions and butter on the counter to start returning them to his bag. He would pack it all up and go back home. Faline could make the soup again, or use the ingredients for something else. It didn’t matter. This was not going to make the phantom any more likely to reveal himself. It was only affirmation of precisely how crazy Draco had let himself become.

He turned back to his glass on the wide table and took a long drink. Draco’s eyes fell to the second cup of port. He blinked. It was still there. Almost exactly where he had left it. And _almost_ as full as he had left it. His heart leapt in his throat, a chill of anxiety running down his spine.

Draco’s eyes scanned the room, searching for any other sign of _him_.

Well, if that’s how he was going to play it.

Draco set the onions to slice, two knives working along a long cutting board he had summoned from the back pantry.

“ _Adlachrymae,_ ” he muttered quickly, pointing his wand at his eyes before he began to tear up. Draco silently thanked the little house elf, who had cast it on him with a snap the day before in the kitchens, after his eyes were already welling up from the onions.

He pulled out the recipe, running his finger over Faline’s neat handwriting, and _accio’d_ a large pot. The first time he heard it, he thought it might have been just the sound of pots _snick_ ing against each other. But then he heard it again. The smallest sniffle, tight and suppressed, as if someone were trying to hide it. And failing, obviously. If it weren’t so pathetic, he’d probably find it more terrifying.

On the third time he heard it, Draco set the pot down sharply atop the stove and whipped around, staring out in the vicinity of the port glass. “For Salazar’s sake, the charm is _adlacrymae_ , _flick-swish_ like this, would you stop that _insipid_ sniffling?”

The room was silent.

Draco stumbled backwards, surprised by his outburst, and put his hands out to catch himself against the counter, eyes wide. Now he’d gone and offended the phantom on top of everything. _Circe, this was stupid_. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. There were no curses flying, as far as he could tell. The sniffling had stopped. He searched the room, but still could see no sign of disturbed air. Maybe Draco was alone again, and he’d thrown the whole plan to waste with his stupid outburst.

Sighing, he stepped forward to take a sip of the wine. He set the glass down on the table again, bent over it, fingers trailing over the stem. The cool texture of the glass was grounding.

With a final glance at the second glass, enviably still, Draco turned to the onions to watch the knives finish the last few slices. He felt the distinct sense of someone watching him prickling at the back of his neck, but he refused to turn back again.

He slid the onions into the pot on the stove, stirring them gently with rapidly melting butter. _Was he meant to put the butter in_ first _or second?_ It was too late anyway. It was sizzling sweetly already; the smell of butter and onions percolated in the air.

Draco summoned the large baguette from the bag and a cutting board, turning to set it on the larger table. He ran a hand over the thick crust, relishing the firm under his fingertips, the color like honey caught in sunlight. With a flick of his wand, he had the serrated knife in hand, and began to cut it, laving long strokes that bit into the thick crust with a satisfying sound. He could do it by magic, but the onions would take nearly half an hour and Draco was not sure he could keep his hands from shaking if they weren’t occupied.

He stopped halfway through the loaf to stir the onions, letting the thick, buttery scent fill his mind and erase the anxiety itching beneath his skin. He worried over the color of the onions (just beginning to turn translucent for another moment), and went back to the loaf of bread. A dozen slices, far neater than his had been, sat on the cutting board.

He walked over, skin prickling, putting his hands out in front of him in fear of running straight into _him_ , but nothing blocked his way.

Draco picked up a slice, testing it, He turned it over in his hands, brought it up to his nose and _inhaled_. The smell of rich, fresh bread filled his senses, with no hint of anything untoward. “Look, if you’re messing with me,” he said in a quiet voice, “Just leave the bread out of it.” He set the slice back on the cutting board, casting his eyes around for any response.

Hearing none, he sent the bread off on a baking tray into the oven, and found his hands with nothing to do. He stirred the onions. They crackled at him softly, and he worried that they were beginning to burn. They weren’t, but he worried.

They were just beginning to take on that gorgeous honey-gold color, growing darker and more carmelized by the minute. Draco could smell them, oozing through the room with a gorgeous, lavish smell. He found himself distracted, turning his nose to the air and letting the warm smell overwhelm his senses. He could do this.

“Garlic,” Draco muttered, “I’ve forgotten the--” the clove was sitting on the counter right beside his hand. It was odd, because he could swear that he hadn’t yet taken it out of the grocery bag. Had the phantom been so close to him and he hadn’t noticed? He could barely resist putting an arm out to see if he could feel that odd fabric once again, but the onions popped beside him, claiming his attention.

He set the cloves to chop themselves into the pot, stirring lazily, trying to pretend for all the world that he was not frightened of whatever was in here with him. _He wasn’t_. If his heart was racing, it was only because he wanted the onions to turn that thick whiskey brown and settle out all their flavor into the bottom of the pan, not because he had any worries.

Draco turned on his heel, head spinning, and walked away from the pot to take a sip from the glass of port on the table. His companion’s glass lay half-empty.

Feeling daring, he walked around the edge of the table, trailing a hand over the rough wood. Nothing stopped him in his way. He leaned over the glass, examining it, searching for fingerprints or any kind of evidence that he was not going completely mad. There was none, except the glass half-way drained and his absolute certainty that it _had_ been full moments ago.

* * *

The soup was simmering away happily, nearly ready to be poured into the little bowls that Faline had given Draco before he left the Manor. Draco had added the bay leaf she had suggested, and the port and beef stock and Worcestershire sauce.

And, when a sprig of thyme appeared just inches from Draco’s hand, he didn’t have a heart attack right away. He thought he might have caught the wink of warm brown fingers just then, but it could have been a trick of the light. He didn’t breathe for another five minutes following.

“Are you sure?” he asked the air, holding up the small green sprig. Nothing responded.

“It’s not in the recipe, you know.” He stared down at the thyme, wondering if he ought to trust Faline’s age-old recipe, or the culinary skills of his very own imaginary friend.

“Fine, then. If you insist.” He tipped it into the pot with a sigh and a stir.

* * *

The six small ramekins of soup were settled, and Draco thought they did look rather enticing, deep umber soup, fragrant and hearty. He turned away to grab the toasted slices of bread, thick and golden-brown and smelling garlic and the kitchens at the Manor on Sunday mornings.

One slice to each soup. Draco had decided to ignore the block of thick gruyere cheese grating itself on the counter without his magic in play, though he couldn’t quite stretch his imagination into believing the house was somehow trying to help him. Though still deeply unsettled by his phantom companion, it seemed that _he_ was no longer trying to attack Draco anymore.

And Draco _was_ a bit lonely, but just around the edges. So if he topped off the second glass of port somewhere between adding the stock to the pot and tugging the sliced bread out of the oven, steaming and glorious, and if he started humming _Good King Wenceslas_ (but just under his breath, of course), then who had to know?

So he shook the gruyere onto the soup cups, covering the baguettes in a hearty layer. And slid the tray back into the oven, flicking his wand to adjust the broiler. He knelt before the stove, watching the cheese bubble and turn a glorious golden brown. The thick gruyere bubbled over the sides, oozing and rich, and Draco’s mouth watered.

When the last of the six ramekins finally reached that perfect golden-brown, he used a charm to draw the tray out and settle on the counter.

“Look,” he said quietly, staring down at the cups, “I obviously know you’re here, and you can probably hear me.” His breath caught and he swallowed hard, pushing away the itching feeling at the back of his neck. “I _think_ you can hear me.”

He turned, pressing his lower back hard against the counter, eyes darting around the room. “I doubt you enjoy this any more than I do,” he said, speaking to a point on the opposite wall. “And you’re possibly a bit more helpful than I expected, I will admit that.”

He levitated two of the ramekins over to the table and sat down at one end, pressing a spoon into the gruyere, melted and gooey. He cleared his throat, nodding to the chair across the table, where the second ramekin had settled and a napkin had folded itself. Nothing moved.

“I’d like to think we can find some sort of truce,” he finished, just as quiet. He waited, eyes on the chair. Draco felt inexplicably young again, waiting for a companion to take his hand. To accept his offer.

It was the door to the kitchen slamming shut, presumably behind the phantom, that made him set his spoon slowly back into the cup and stand, chin up, and betraying none of the ache he felt settling on his shoulders.

“Kreacher,” he said in an even voice. The elf appeared, with a sneer like he had smelled something rotten. Draco pressed a hand to his temple, where a headache was blooming.

“See to it that he gets some of this before it goes cold.” He turned away from the elf to summon together the rest of his things.

“Mr. Malfoy misunderstands--” Kreacher started in a high, nervous voice, wringing his hands.

“I don’t,” Draco’s tone was not harsh, but clipped. “I know he’s here, and he knows I know. See to it that he gets this soup, please, and have some for yourself if you like.”

He turned on his heel and stomped out the door, snagging his cloak in a flurry. As he let the door to Number Twelve slam shut behind him, he refused to turn back to look for the flicker in the curtains. Let them flicker. He had better things to do with his night than deal with stubborn Gryffindors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never had French onion soup, and I have no actual opinion on the port wine vs. white wine debate. So I’m sorry if I & Faline have offended you, and please feel free to drop your recipe in the comments. 
> 
> And if you would like I recipe, I used the following:  
> http://juliachildsrecipes.com/soup/julia-childs-french-onion-soup/  
> https://www.gimmesomeoven.com/classic-french-onion-soup/  
> https://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/classic-french-onion-soup/ 
> 
> I'm really enjoying [SamUnderTheLights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samunderthelights/pseuds/Samunderthelights)' first of the advent fics, _[A Love Story Told in Five Christmases](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020/works/27813874)_ , a short chaptered fic among Sam's others in the series. Go give the whole series a read for love and fluff and falling for each other at Christmas!


	12. The Black Portraits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco meets two ancestors via the portraits on the fourth floor.

_Thursday, 6 December 2007_

There was a small flurry of snow mixed with rain settling into Draco’s hair as he peered at the door to Grimmauld Place, heart in his throat. It wasn’t that he was _scared_ , per se. His life was probably not at risk. His sanity though, that seemed another story. 

But he was a professional. Draco had worn his proper robes today, the smart navy uniform bearing the Preservationists' Guild seal on the chest. When he had first joined the department, he had looked askance at the _idea_ of wearing _blue_ , but the past years had given him a change of heart. There was something rather smart about the shiny gold buttons up the waistcoat, and the sharp line of the white collar underneath against his throat that felt just _right_. He found that he rather liked the way the bold blue set him apart from the gloomy neturals of his family.

He could do this. Draco lifted his wand, hand covered in a brown leather glove, and touched it to the lock. Relief settled unbidden as the door clicked and swung open. He had been half-afraid that the house -- or whomever it was within -- might reject him and change the magic keyed into the lock.

The foyer looked about the same as it always had, though Draco felt as though something fundamental had shifted. He ran a hand over the door frame as he stepped inside, thin leather sliding over the warm wood. 

“Did you miss me?” he muttered to the house. She didn’t answer in so many words, though Draco could swear the wallpaper seemed to turn just a slightly more vibrant shade. He looked around the foyer, eyeing the lit fireplace through the doorway in the parlor with an ease he had not felt since arriving in the house nearly three weeks before.

“Best get to it,” he said, louder, and shucked his cloak and gloves over the coatrack. 

Draco trailed his hand over the banister as he walked and paused. There was a new bar, about halfway up the first flight of stairs, carved in precisely the same manner as all the rest. He crouched for a moment, examining the woodwork. Not a trace of the artisan’s tools, and a near-match on the deep mahogany stain. It was just _slightly_ off. Age could give a patina that no hand, no matter how skilled, could replicate.

But he hadn’t noticed it before, though he had trekked up these stairs over and over. Which meant one of two things: either Draco had missed it (unlikely, as it was his _job_ to observe the material existence of the house) or it was newly added. And Draco was not quite sure about the second option. Elf magic rarely extended to such things, and if it weren’t Kreacher, well. Better to be off up the rest of the stairs with _that_ thought out of his mind.

He thought, as he walked, that the house looked a bit gloomy. It was only mid-December but the house felt like it was starting to settle into a winter hibernation. The stairs creaked more than they had even when he had started only a few weeks before, like old bones as the cold of winter sets in. 

When he reached the third landing, he called, “Kreacher,” without raising his voice. The little elf appeared, clad in a different and slightly cleaner pillowcase. Draco raised an eyebrow, affecting an aristocratic frown. 

“I’d like you to put up a few _small_ decorations for the holiday,” Draco said, voice with the edge of one who is in charge. 

Kreacher’s face was split into a mixture of confusion and anger, landing somewhere in the [insert shitty expression] range. “ _Decorations_?” Kreacher asked, voice more full of disdain than Draco’s.

“A bit of holly, and some lights if you have them around,” Draco answered. He folded his arms, looking down at the elf imperiously, as he had seen his mother do time and again at the Manor. Kreacher looked unimpressed.

“Draco Malfoy wants Kreacher to put up holly and lights.”

“That is correct,” Draco snapped. “It will do the House some good to have a bit of cheer. I’m sure you can tell she’s a bit gray around the edges.”

Kreacher gasped, putting his hands over his mouth. “Draco Malfoy dares to imply that Kreacher is not--”

“No, no,” Draco interrupted, before he could turn to a full out tantrum, “You’re doing--”

“--Not properly taking _care_ of the House and making sure she has the _best--_ ”

“Kreacher, for Salazar’s sake, you’re taking perfectly fine care.”

“Perfectly fine care!” Kreacher wailed, throwing his hands to the air.

“Kreacher!” Draco shouted. The house elf, thankfully, took a long breath, clearly in preparation for a much longer rant to come. Draco pressed a hand to his temple, the other going to his wand, finding something grounding in the texture of the wooden handle. “You are a good elf. That much is clear.”

Kreacher caught his breath, shoulders still shaking alarmingly. “Kreacher _doesn’t need_ a wayward Black to tell him this,” he said petulantly, just loud enough for Draco to hear him. “If Mistress Black could see this.”

“She would want you to bring a little holiday spirit, no?” Draco implored, willing to play along with whatever fantasy Kreacher would need to _get out of this conversation_.

Kreacher puzzled over this for a moment, and looked up, narrowing his wide eyes at Draco. “Mistress Black _did_ like Christmas.”

“So a bit of decoration would be quite right,” he added. “And it would perk the house up. Something small, tasteful.”

“Small and tasteful,” Kreacher echoed. “Kreacher will decide what is right, Kreacher knows the house better than _Draco Malfoy_ ,” he muttered the name like it was sour, curling his lip. He turned on his heel and was gone in a pop.

Draco sighed, smoothing a hand over the front of his waistcoat, running a finger over one of the little gold buttons, over the tiny raised edge of the Preservationist’s seal imprinted on the button. The texture was soothing, distracting enough to calm the frayed edge of his nerves where Kreacher had sent him spinning.

Once settled, he turned down the darkest corridor on the third floor. He had stumbled down this hall by accident on his first day in the house, when he was fleeing a sudden cold front outside of the room marked _R.A.B_. He hadn’t chanced that door again, but he was deeply curious about what the dark hall of portraits might have to share with him. He cast a quick _Lumos_ , sending three small baubles of light up to the ceiling, where they bobbed and cast a bright glow down the long hall.

It was an odd space, most likely purpose-built as a sort of art gallery, or a place to hang up old portraits that weren’t on display elsewhere in the house. The issue with magical portraits was that they really didn’t take kindly to being shoved off in storage, even if being out of storage meant a dingy, poorly lit hall.

Draco set his quill and parchment to begin taking notes, and flicked his wand to start a series of barometric charms. He leaned in close to the nearest frame, featuring an older woman with black curls around the crown of her head and the barest hint of a smile. It was not so old, probably early nineteenth century, painted in oil on canvas, unless Draco was wrong. He was rarely so. 

Beside her was an older gentleman (older both for his rather wizened age, and for the far older style writ into the paint). These two seemed so still, Draco wondered if they had gone dormant. That was always possible for older paintings who had been stored in the dark, to go silent one day and never wake again. Terribly sad, though, Draco thought, both for the loss of these sitters and for the possibility of asking about the phantom.

There were several more down along the hall, and perhaps one or two of them might stir. But Draco paused to position his barometric charm on these first, dictating small blemishes in the canvas as he reviewed each of the two paintings. 

As he stared over the frames, he found them oddly without a single mar, as perfectly stained and carved as if they had been made fresh. But they matched the period, neat carvings on the edges rippling with the proper magic. Although perhaps they _did_ move too smoothly to be original. The charms should have grown at least _somewhat_ muddy with age. And it was odd that they had no dust around the edges or among any of the tiny carved crevices. 

Draco drew his wand again, creating a tiny beam of light to examine one corner of the woman’s frame, angling his light to see if there was any hint of muck in the corners. He found none on the frame, but the canvas itself? It clearly had not been cleaned in a century.

“Excuse me,” a small voice pipped, and Draco nearly jumped out of his skin, only years of practice keeping his hand from flying wide in alarm.

He looked up to catch the steel-gray eyes of the woman in the portrait as she frowned at him. “Do you mind? My eyes have a spot of trouble adjusting.” 

Still not breathing, Draco flicked his wand to extinguish the light and cast quickly to turn the bright _Lumos-_ bulbs into a softer yellow. She smiled appreciatively, turning more fully to face him.

“What, is there _another_ one?” the man in the portrait beside her harrumphed. Draco turned to him quickly, surprised at the jovial smile and pinkish tint that had twisted its way into the strokes of paint at his cheeks. 

“Another one?” Draco breathed, pressing his hands against the wall across from the portraits. He stood facing the pair of them, eyes flicking between them. The woman’s portrait was a three-quarter, cut off just below her knees. She sat in a deep garden, lounging on a small red couch, with her dark curls bouncing as she laughed lightly at him, a slim, gloved hand pressed over her lips.

“ _Yes_ ,” the man said, “ _Another_ one of you youths gallivanting through our Hall like you have nothing better to do. Don’t you have business to manage?” He turned his nose at Draco, though Draco caught him peering down at him, obviously curious.

The woman scoffed, flashing a hand at the man and Draco noticed the pair of odd fur gloves she wore. “Betel, come off it. He is clearly _at_ his business with that fancy quoting quill. Are you not, Mr. Black?”

Once again, Draco found himself completely caught off guard. He swallowed, standing straighter in front of her, pressing his hands behind his back unconsciously in the way his mother had always instructed him to stand.

“That is correct, madam,” he said, trying to affect his voice with confidence he did not feel. A light touched her eyes (just the barely flick of blue in the silvery-gray paint), revealing a hidden smile.

“You may dispense with the pleasantries,” she tilted her head forward towards him, paint shifting as she did. “And call me Petra. Petra Black Prewett.”

Draco blinked at her several times before he realized he was being rude. He tilted his own head towards her in a sort of bow, in place of a proper Wizarding handshake, wands and all.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he echoed, voice sounding far away. 

“A Malfoy!” the man that Petra had called Betel exclaimed. “We haven’t had one of those in the line in _ages_. _Très français_ , no?”

“ _Un petit peu_ ,” Draco answered without thinking, the standard response. “But we haven’t lived at _Le Palais Blanc_ in Normandy in centuries, though the estate _is_ part of my inheritance.”

“So a Malfoy through and through!” Betel responded, clearly warming up to him, “I remember the stories of old Armand Malfoy. You know, he only died about fifty years before I was born. I nearly met him, and _he_ was quite a celebrity, dear boy.”

“Hmm,” Draco answered, eyes straying to Petra, who was shaking her head as though she had heard Betel’s story many times. She had pressed a single gloved hand to her head, and Draco leaned slightly closer, trying to parse what sort of animal made up the fur there. It couldn’t be a hedgehog, could it? That seemed entirely too bizarre. 

Petra caught him staring and extended a hand to him. The luscious fur glittered in the light of the canvas, lush and expensive-looking. “Don’t you like them?” she asked, “They were a gift from my betrothed. You know, he was not quite as handsome as you.”

“They’re-- lovely,” Draco got out, pressing his lips together before he shared any further.

“Ah, see, Pet, he’s got the old Black tact. None of that from the Malfoy’s, I’ll swear it!” Betel was laughing as though someone had told an absolutely hilarious joke. 

“He is _clearly_ a Black, through and through,” she remarked, smiling at him as she tucked her hands neatly back in her lap. “From the nose to the tact and the profession, wouldn’t you say?”

As they spoke, new color had returned to their canvases, as if the oils in the paints had become refreshed, shiny and clean, shucking off the natural dust of years of darkness. When Betel nodded, for instance, in response to Petra, the once-stiff paint shifted and healed, seeming like it was freshly painted once again. 

“My poor betrothed. He tried so hard to make me happy, but none of those Prewetts quite had their wands on straight.”

Thinking of his Mother’s echoing disdain for those “blood-traitors,” Draco frowned up at Petra, disappointed, oddly, that this new family member was as unkind as his current family. But she shook her head at him, waggling a finger.

“No, no,” she said, “I can hear your mind working from my frame. Now I know the Prewetts get a bad reputation among our sort, and I can only guess from your expression that it’s worse in a few hundred years. But I’ll be having none of that tripe, thank you very much.”

Slightly taken aback, Draco’s mind began to whirl, imagining how different his family might have been if Petra had been in his mother’s place. Would he have followed in _her_ footsteps, rather than his father’s? Would she have spoken so kindly of the Prewetts, had she been born so many years later? And would _he_ have done the same?

“How _did_ you know about my work?” Draco asked, pulling himself away from his own thought spiral.

Petra tucked a loosened curl behind her ear, letting her gloved hand fall back to her lap. “It’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t think so,” Betel muttered, voice grumpy, “But then, Petra believes she’s smarter than everyone around her.”

“It’s no mere belief if it is the truth,” she answered, eyes on Draco. “I _am_ smarter than most, and most certainly you, Betelguese Black.”

“In any case,” she went on, interrupting both Draco and Betel, “There are very few professions acceptable to our family that send strapping young men into dying houses to check the humidity.”

Draco folded his arms, somewhat warmed by the idea that she thought of them as belonging to the same family. “My father does not believe _any_ employment to be acceptable.”

“Ah, there must be the Malfoy side,” Betel jibed, eyes bright and blue in the wandlight. He dragged a tankard from the table behind him and took a long drink, sloshing flashing drips of paint down his canvas. “All socialite rot, the lot of them.”

“But not you,” Draco’s eyes narrowed, looking between them. Though Betel and Petra could not see each other directly, Draco would swear they _exchanged a look_ over him. 

Petra looked rather confused, tilting her head and pressing a gloved finger to her chin. “Blacks have held quite a number of professions,” she said. “Betel, though he’s hard-pressed to admit it, was quite the Librarian in his time. And my father,” she drew her hands up as if to illustrate him, “He was the most excellent collector. He would find all the most exquisite things -- fossils and geodes, but also rare objects.”

She tugged a small miniature, hung from a large gold chain from her neck, and showed it to him, opening the locket to reveal a tiny miniature painting. It too moved about, miniscule paint details shifting in Petra’s larger strokes. “Miniatures were his favorite, and mine too.”

“I didn’t know,” Draco’s voice was so quiet it was unclear if he was speaking to himself or to Petra.

“It’s in your blood, isn’t it?” Betel put in, “And stop muttering. You youths don’t know how to _enunciate_.”

“It must be why you’re an excellent Preservationist,” she added. “Just because I wasn’t moving when you walked up doesn’t mean I didn’t hear all your little notes. _Lovely paint_ indeed!”

Draco considered this, and found that he agreed with most of his earlier notes. It would have been quite a shame if this pair were dormant, though they seemed full of life and spirit. Their paint shimmered cheerily in the wandlight, shifting across the canvas as Betel took another drink and Petra plucked up a fan, flickering it in front of her.

“I appreciate the compliment,” Draco said quietly, hands folded in front of him. “I am _quite_ good at my job.” He paused, looking between them, putting on an affect of being in on a secret with the pair. “Though the Master of this house has been rather meddlesome.”

“I see your Slytherin eyes,” Petra said, flapping her fan in his direction. He could almost swear he could feel the wind shifting from the way the paint strokes moved around the curves of the fan. “You’ll not get a word out of _either_ of us about him. He’s very private, you know.”

“Oh, but he’s a good sort,” Betel interjected. “Just _look_ at this fine frame. Do you know, old boy, before he came around looking, my frame was in absolute _disrepair_. An utter disgrace!”

Draco cut in before Petra could interrupt again. “And how long ago was that?”

“About four years, give or take a few months. You know, he got a bit bored parading around the house with his nose in the air, ignoring all of us--”

“And he is very private,” Petra cut him off. “A fact which _each_ of us ought to respect.” Her voice carried the same sharpness that had become utterly familiar in Narcissa’s voice, with nearly the same cadences. It stopped his response right in his throat, and Draco found himself automatically shifting into a straighter posture, chin up, _In the Proper Way,_ she would always singsong in his ear until his back was as stiff as a board.

Draco cleared his throat, flicking his wand to draw the parchment closer. “Perhaps you might tell me a bit more about your father, then,” he tried not to sound or look too hopeful, “While I take a few additional notes.”

The quill began to scritch across the parchment once again, reflecting the observations Draco had already made but not yet dictated. 

“Only if you make me sound very good,” she said, sitting up more primly.

Betel snorted, a gruff, odd sound in his posh voice. “As if this kid could make you sound anything but. Petra Prewett, you _do_ amuse me.”

She frowned at the corner of her frame, but lifted her hands to begin her story. “My father, Arcturus Black, found the most beautiful gemstones, most bizarre and unusual fossils, and of course, all the paintings you could imagine. From every era of magical art making, and more. The collection’s not whole anymore,” and so on she continued, as Draco composed his notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today, I'll recommend [GallifreyIsBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyisBurning/pseuds/GallifreyisBurning)'s _[Home for the Holidays](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27818299)_ , the Drarry Hallmark movie you didn't know you were missing. Absolutely lovely!


	13. The Great War Historical Society Annual Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco must attend the annual ball and schmooze with the members of the Great War Historical Society. If only anyone actually wanted to talk about history. Or his work. Or literally anything besides the Ghost of Grimmauld Place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Alcohol consumption.

_Friday, 7 December 2007_

Draco stepped through the massive, overly-decorative floo at approximately half-past six, fashionably late for the Great War Historical Society Annual Ball. The ornate fireplace opened to a voluptuous parlor decorated in red and gold. Draco could not quite hide the smile that threatened to break -- he had spent nearly a year working with Bill and Maison on this house: the Marlene McKinnon Memorial Mansion. It wasn’t quite a mansion, in Draco’s opinion, not enough rooms to count, but the M theme seemed to work well, and it most _certainly_ was not a Manor.

Draco touched the fireplace mantle, hit by a small wave of nostalgia as he eyed his neat repair work in the decorative relief. “You’re looking rather spiffy tonight,” he said, turning to the decorated parlor.

“Thank you. I do, don’t I?” came a familiar voice. Draco turned to catch Maison’s arched gaze, a smile in her eyes. She had been watching him from the doorway to the parlor, long black dress sharp and demanding from its high black collar down to the flick of the hem over her thin stiletto heel. 

Draco smiled, the feeling not fully reaching his eyes, and walked over to her, ducking his head in hello. She batted his arm, rolling her eyes at him.

“Don’t you look charming?” she said, eyeing his semi-traditional robes. Draco had selected his outfit very carefully, running an ironing charm over the deep green fabric of his robes again and again until it was time to go. He was often worried about how he might look, and tonight was no different. It was no surprise that Maison had already caught him, and was certainly poised and ready to foist him off on any number of curmudgeonly Historical Society members.

He wore a white shirt underneath the deep green, crisp collar peeking out over the edge of the flowing line of the robe. They were well tailored, of course, the best that Twilfitt could offer, and outfitted with neat gold embellishments. Draco ran his free hand absently over the line of small gold buttons running down from the collar to his waist, each in perfect line.

“Rumor has it that they’ll serve duck tonight,” she said, flashing eyes at him as they walked through the hall towards the big ballroom. Draco eyed the pair of regal McKinnon portraits on either side of the ornate entry who smiled at him endearingly. He would have to come back to say hello before he left for the evening.

“Hmm,” Draco murmured in response to Maison. 

Draco could hear the sounds of a live band beginning a lively rendition of “O Holy Night,” and he found himself nervous. He often was, just before large events like these, when the prospect of walking into a massive crowd and _socializing_ was an immediate reality. Draco wondered absently if things had been different in the War, if he had spent more time around proper purebloods and not surrounded by Death Eaters, if it might be less of a task. Maybe he might have come to tea in this very house -- the McKinnons were new money pure-bloods, not sacred twenty-eight, but. They _had_ been a powerful enough family to be worth getting to know.

His mind was already whirling back to the portraits on the third floor of Grimmauld Place, each one another in the long line of Blacks who were no more blood purists than the rather radical McKinnons. There were certainly still many in his family more horrible than the next, he knew that. But that there could be even _one_ who might be better than all that gave him hope vibrant and alive deep in his chest.

Just before they stepped inside, Maison touched his arm again, and he turned fully towards her, his eyebrows arching in confusion. His supervisor was rarely touchy, even at events where such a thing was more appropriate.

“I don’t know what niffler’s got your mind, Malfoy,” she said, none too kindly, “But you _know_ how important this is. Pull out the raving socialite I know you’ve got in there.” Draco would not have been more on edge if one of Maison’s black stilettos was at his chest instead of one of her long nails.

He shoved one hand into a deep pocket in his robes, where a small piece of onyx stone lay, smooth and soft to the touch. “Of course,” he said out loud, pulling on the proper _Malfoy_ voice used for smarming up to all sorts of society types. 

“ _There_ we go,” Maison breathed, tone of relief evident in her voice. She turned back towards the massive doors to the ballroom and waved her wand to send them swinging boldly open. 

Draco and Maison swanned inside, each tall and imposing and utterly formal. Draco looked across the room, taken by the way the lights danced off the golden mirrors along the walls, before Maison was _off_ , heels snapping against the beautiful polished-wood floor. Draco kept in step, just off to her right, his own sharp brown dress shoes echoing Maison’s.

“Saroya,” Maison drawled, reaching a hand out to greet the imposing woman. Saroya, head of the Great War Society, wore a voluptuous red and silver dress, the appearance slightly overwhelming. Draco beamed at her, shaking her hand with a carefully-plastered eagerness.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Saroya immediately turned from Maison to Draco, “How goes the Great Ghost of Grimmauld Place?” She smiled, red-painted lips curled in clear joy at her own creativity. 

Draco’s breath caught in his throat as he considered his response, and leaned conspiratorially towards her. “Oh, there is certainly a ghost there, Madam Vane,” he winked. “ _And_ , I think he’s becoming less-- shall we say, _violent_.” 

“Do tell,” Saroya said, plucking a cocktail from a passing waiter. It was faintly steaming and smelled like pears and ginger and gin, and Draco quickly snapped one up as well, sipping it for fortitude. Maison drifted off, arm in arm with a rather dashing young man bearing the Society’s pin on his lapel. 

“I managed to corral him in the kitchen for a good hour on Thursday,” he said, primly, “Though I should really tell you about some of the books I’ve found in the library. I saw a few volumes that even the National Library might be missing--”

“No matter that, have you _seen_ him? Face-to-face?” she was eager now, her big, curly hair bobbing with her excitement.

Draco took another sip of the cocktail. “I haven’t _seen_ him, per se,” he offered, anxious to stay in her good graces, “But I _know_ he’s there.”

“And you know he’s a he?” Saroya asked.

Struck, Draco paused. _Did_ he know the phantom was a man? There was no particular evidence to support that theory that Draco had firmly thrown himself into believing. And yet. There was a way to the caress of the sawdust in the attic, even the silhouette dark in the bathroom mirror, that felt distinctly masculine. The smell Draco caught every once in a while, like freshly cut wood and peppermint and something familiarly male. 

“I assume it,” Draco acquiesced, “Though, have you been in to see the parlor room? It’s got the most exquisite table, with the Black family crest right in the center in mother-of-pearl inlay. It’s stunning, I must have you in to visit and tour about the place.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Saroya interrupted again. She put a hand on his shoulder, and Draco glanced at it, irritated, though she did not pull away. “Our funding for this project is in the expectation that it will become a _museum_.”

Draco nodded, shifting subtly to dislodge her hand without calling attention to his discomfort. He gave her a charming smile, leaning in to make up for the slight. “Of course. A museum of Order of the Phoenix history, Maison and I have spoken at length about how exciting this is.”

“Right,” Saroya drawled, sipping at her drink. “And a museum must be exciting, as I’m sure you know.” She tucked a single curl behind one ear, offering him a wry expression. “Ghost stories sell, of course, so _please_ , Mr. Malfoy, don’t make me ask it again. Thrill me! What have you uncovered?”

Saroya continued to ply tales of the mysterious phantom from him, clearly pleased when he gave off trying to describe the furniture and offered (if slightly exaggerated) stories of avoiding -- and seeking out -- the man at Grimmauld Place.

* * *

Draco was three cocktails in, overwhelmed by the enthusiastic rendition of _O Christmas Tree_ thundering across the room, and tired of being dragged from conversation to conversation by Maison, who seemed to have a particular radar on him. Whenever he would come to an easy end in a conversation with one member of the _Society_ , Maison would appear at his side, offer him another drink, and parade him off to another.

She remained at his side with this one, though, as she guided him over to an older gentleman. They sat down at his table, where he was clearly keeping court, a younger woman to his left speaking animatedly. She stopped abruptly as Draco and Maison settled down at the table, eyes turning dark and angry the second her recognition registered.

Draco felt cold settle into the base of his stomach and he glanced over at Maison. Her head remained high, chin in the air and jaw set, her bright eyes flashing with something he knew to be dangerous but which appeared eager and impassioned to the less familiar eye. 

“Fabien Creevey,” Maison announced, putting her hand out to shake his, “It’s wonderful to see you again, sir,” she said in a warning tone, “I’m Maison Bell, Head Preservationist. It’s been such an honor to work on the Grimmauld project with you all.”

Fabien shook her hand willingly, though his eyes did not leave Draco even as she spoke. Maison went on, “Have you had the chance to meet my protege, Draco Malfoy?” 

Draco offered a hand, but quickly dropped it when neither Fabien nor the man beside him reached out to take it. Maison, thankfully, forged right on ahead. “He has spent the better part of the last month over at Number 12 and has quite a few stories to tell, don’t you, darling?”

Swallowing a long sip of his cocktail, Draco nodded once, pressing his hands together in his lap. “I do,” he nodded, sitting forward, prepared to launch into his now well-tested spiel about the Ghost of Grimmauld Place.

“Save it,” Fabien snapped, waving a hand to stop Draco from going on. “I fought tooth and nail against your being on the project, and I have not changed my mind one bit.” His gruff voice was no less sharp and bitter for its gravellyness.

“Sir, with all due respect,” Draco said, feeling like he owed him very little respect indeed, “I have done my time, and spent the years since giving my expertise to the Ministry and the Great War Society, as you well know--”

“And?” he grumbled, “Will that bring my son back? Will that bring Fatima’s son back?” he gestured to Fatima Brown, the willowy woman beside him, “I am sure your _expertise_ ,” he sneered the word, filling it with doubt and aspersion, “is as false as the way you purport to being _reformed_.”

Draco opened his mouth to retort, having had nearly this conversation more than once in the past years, but Maison beat him to it, waving over a waiter. 

“Have some gingerbread,” she said, levitating the plate of cookies right off the server’s tray and onto the table. She handed a crisp brown gingerbread man to Draco, who set it down on the plate on the table with a slight shiver. No food should be so _human_. She also shoved the tray towards Fabien and Fatima, her piercing blue eyes narrowed fiercely at them. Maison set a hand on Draco’s shoulder, and Draco allowed her to keep it there, for once grateful for the calming weight.

“We -- and I mean _we,_ myself, the Ministry, the Department of Magical Historical Places, _and yes_ , the Great War Historical Society -- hired Mr. Malfoy for his remarkable expertise and his growing renown in our field of preservation. So far, he has shown admirable work at Grimmauld, on par with the impressive success he has had with a number of other projects, _including this very hall_ ,” she gestured around them at the beautiful, ornate ceiling, original flooring, and gilt detailing over the walls. 

Though Draco had not done the actual restoration work himself, his research and plans for the preservation of the space had been granted to the conservators. He had consulted for nearly a full year on the project and had become the reigning expert on the McKinnons. He mused over this, a faint flush at his cheekbones as Maison went on, interrupting Fabien as he began to speak again.

“Furthermore, Mr. Malfoy has _indeed_ been tried for his crimes and has served his sentence, and has clearly demonstrated a great growth in character that is obvious, certainly, to those of us who have made the effort to know him.” She selected a biscuit from the tray of gingerbread, holding it neatly in her long, elegant fingers. Draco did not meet her eye as her gaze slid back to him. “I expect that you will eventually follow the mindset of the rest of the Society,” she finished, “To recognize the value of an excellent Preservationist at work.”

She stood, and Draco followed suit, pushing the chair back with his head high and breath tight in his throat at the intensity of her compliments. He would not speak of it to her again. Away from Fabien, she steadied him and finally let her hand drop of his arm.

“Right,” she snapped, voice as sharp as ever, “You’ve done well tonight, but I’ll let you have a small break before we go to speak to the Scamanders.” She waved yet another waiter over and pressed another cocktail into his hand.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Draco nodded, “Deep pockets, wide social circles. The Ghost of Grimmauld Place,” he sighed. He wished someone would be a bit more curious about the actual work he was there to do, but he should know better. No one knew how to appreciate properly beautiful _things_ anymore. 

* * *

Draco had finished the cocktail but had almost no break when he noticed Granger and Weasley were also sitting just out of the morass of people, off around the edges of the fray with heads bent together. Before he could think better of it, he pushed away from his table, abandoning his empty glass, and swanned over to theirs, sliding into an empty seat beside Granger. The pair abruptly stopped speaking, turning to face him with similar confused and slightly annoyed expressions.

“One,” Draco counted, pointing to the full glass of wine in front of Granger, “Two,” he said, pointed to the pint in front of Weasley, “Three,” he finished, nodding to the third half-full glass of a vibrant red cocktail. 

Weasley shrugged, shifting the cocktail closer to his own with an impenetrable expression. “I like to go back and forth,” he said, voice sharp. “And hello to you too, Malfoy.”

“Good evening,” Draco drawled, eyes narrowed at the empty chair beside Weasley. “My case at Grimmauld is continuing well. Your notes were _very_ informative.”

Weasley had the good sense to avoid Granger’s quick gaze as her eyes cut over to him and narrowed just slightly. She turned back to Draco, hands folded neatly in her lap. “We were just going, unfortunately,” she said. 

“Right,” Weasley frowned, and picked up a fishy-looking hor d'oeuvre from the plate in front of him and chewed on it. He looked over at Granger, who sighed, shaking her head at him.

As she stood, Draco copied, putting a hand out over the table, “Wait,” he asked, voice low. “I wanted to-- Is it true?”

“You don’t know anything that isn’t speculation,” Granger said, voice sharpened by her years of legal training. “And we will confirm nothing.” 

Draco steepled his fingers together, stepping closer around the edge of the table. It felt as if the sound of the band had suddenly grown quieter, and Draco was distracted for a moment, wondering if she had cast a pre-emptive muffling charm.

“He’s alive,” Draco said, sotto voce. “That much is clear, based on _deduction_ , not speculation.” He turned his gaze to Weasley, who was staring down at the red cocktail on the table, lips pursed. “And if that’s true,” Draco continued.

Granger interrupted him, raising her hand again, “We haven’t said it is.” 

“ _If_ it’s true that he’s alive,” Draco said, “He must be staying somewhere. So, did he leave? A Slytherin would be halfway to Paris the second that charm exploded. But he’s not a Slytherin, is he?” Weasley still would not meet either of their eyes, but Granger’s expression was full of fire. She dropped her hand, letting it rest on the holster just barely visible at the hip of her pantsuit.

“If it were true, _Malfoy_ ,” she spat his name with a harsh bitterness, “And I make no indication that it could be true. He would have his reasons to stay hidden. Reasons the likes of _you_ may not understand.”

Weasley finally piped up, crossing his arms over his broad chest and frowning down at the table. “Look, mate,” his voice was far kinder than Granger’s, “I think you _think_ you mean well an’ all, but it might just be best to leave it be.”

“It might be,” Draco echoed, “But I haven’t done so yet, so I don’t know why I’d start now.” Granger put her arm through Weasley’s, tugging him away. 

“We’ll be going,” she said, eyes sharp. “And good _night_ to you. Happy Holidays.” She had such bitterness, it was almost funny to hear the kind phrase. 

“Whatever’s there, at Grimmauld Place,” Draco put in as they began to walk away. “I think he’s as curious as I am.” And as lonely, Draco added reluctantly, but didn’t say so out loud. He could imagine why Potter would want to come and sit in such a busy hall and yet remain invisible. Surrounded by people and with no need to speak to a single one. He wished he could disappear too, avoid Maison’s sharp gaze and the constant _wants_ of this person or that.

Weasley looked over his shoulder as he pulled away, but said nothing, allowing Granger to tug him off towards another corner of the hall. Draco watched them go for a moment, Granger’s sleek Muggle pantsuit and Weasley’s awkward, floaty robes an odd combination. There was no sign of a third person with them, and Draco wondered idly if the third cocktail was indeed a facet of Weasley’s bizarre tastes. Though, when he looked back at the table, the glass, which had been half-full moments ago, was perfectly empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter before DragonTamerDame made [this incredible drawing of Draco in a green suit](https://dragontamerdame.tumblr.com/post/635993816564924416/kofi-doodle-for-the-starryknight-who-requested) and now I have an even stronger need for Draco in greens... if you do too, you'll love Ash's art!
> 
> And for today, I'll send you off to [DigTheWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/digthewriter/pseuds/digthewriter)'s _[Is that a golden snitch (or my heart) you're after?](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020/works/27772837)_ , a lovely story featuring Quidditch team owner Draco and player Harry amid a championship game series. Bickering, Quidditch fun, and love ensues. Enjoy!


	14. Hangovers and Holiday Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, Draco _did_ ask Kreacher to decorate, didn't he?

_Saturday, 8 December 2007_

When Draco arrived at that gorgeous front door the next morning, head splitting and eyes watering at the bright sunlight, he was immediately annoyed. Someone had stuck a giant green wreath on the door, pinned by a simple charm and utterly too bright for his liking. It was a Saturday, for Salazar’s sake, and one should not have to confront the bright and cheerful shittery of Christmas at nine in the morning on a Saturday.

He raised his wand, touching the tip to the knob and pushing it open with a light gust of cold air at his heels. Two of the Great War Society members (wizened, difficult-to-please, and with “deep vaults,” Maison had said) would be coming by in three hours’ time. “Give them a good little fright,” Maison had instructed, “Amp up the ghost story, show them some of the rare stuff about the place. You know how to do this well.”

It would be the first of one of these tours that Draco would do entirely alone. Though the Department of Magical House Preservation fell under the aegis of the Ministry, their projects often needed significant outside funding, not only for Draco’s (frankly meager) salary, but for the many Conservationists who would come in after he finished his initial inventory work. Giving tours to wealthy donors was a standard practice, and one that he had learned by watching Maison or partnering with Bill.

He was going to need a very large cup of tea. In his minds’ eye, the size of the cup grew exponentially as he surveyed the sudden appearance of greenery and lights all about the foyer. He pressed his fingers to his throbbing head as he looked up the massive bannister where greenery was wrapped around and around the deep mahogany, a string of silvery-white wizarding lights dancing up the stairs.

With a bone-deep sigh, Draco slung his cloak over the hatstand and stormed through the hall into the kitchen. He snapped his wand to his hand, setting the kettle to boil and walked to the pantry to pluck up a large green mug. Draco pressed his cold hands against the mug as he walked back to the kitchen, casting a subtle warming charm on the smooth porcelain. 

With his tea sorted, Draco settled against the counter, warming his hands and letting the hearty smell of the tea sink into his skin. He drank it without milk (of course) and with just a touch of sugar, enough to bite back against the slightly oversteeped flavor that Draco preferred. 

Pressing a freshly warmed hand against his forehead, Draco surveyed the kitchen for any sign of the phantom. He had left the door ajar -- by accident this time -- and as usual, there was little dust to be kicked up in the kitchen. 

“Look,” Draco said, and immediately lowered the volume of his voice with a wince, “Look, there’s going to be some people around here later, and I felt I ought to be cordial and let you know.”

Silence answered him. Draco felt rather stupid, speaking to an empty room like this. He sighed, taking another long sip of the too-hot tea, letting it scald down his throat, bringing warmth to his chest and his fingers in quick succession.

“They are rather important donors,” he went on, “They will not be touching anything, or changing anything, that I can promise, so there’s no concern in that regard.” He wasn’t quite sure if he was speaking to the phantom, to the house and Kreacher, or only to himself. He wasn’t sure it really mattered either way. Draco considered going on about how important these donors were to _him_ , particularly, 

“Actually, if you felt like doing a bit of,” he waved a hand, “Your ghost act. It seems they might actually _enjoy_ such a fright, if you can imagine. It’s good for ticket sales, apparently.” 

The kitchen door slammed shut barely a second after Draco had finished speaking, and he sighed, taking a long sip of the tea. An unsettling thought fell over him -- was he now locked _in_ with the phantom, or had he slammed it shut on his way out? Draco pushed away from the counter, eyes searching once again with no luck.

Nothing seemed to be coming at him, no spells cracking through the air or vitriol flipping his way. He took another long drink of the tea, hoping against hope that the caffeine would send the headache on its way.

* * *

He was rushing. That was the problem. Draco rarely rushed, preferring to take his sweet time and let everyone else wait. But the donors were arriving in half an hour, and Draco had wanted to bring down one of the curio cabinets from the attic and set up some lights down the portrait hall. He had been envisioning the perfect tour, guiding them through the gorgeous parlor and into the formal dining room, up to the unused bedroom, and through the decorative bathroom (with the most _superb_ clawfoot tub, just such a fascinating piece of new wizarding technology in a rare instance when it preceded the Muggle counterpart). 

But he was rushing, hurrying down the stairs and over to vanish the wilted flowers in the vase on the sideboard. He was rushing, so he didn’t notice the little spring that _wasn’t_ holly hung up at the edge of the portrait with the blushing flowers. He knew this house like the hilt of his wand, for Salazar’s sake, and better and better every day, and yet. Here he was. 

His feet were planted firmly on the tiled floor, one stuck on a black tile, and one on a white. He glared up at the tiny sprig of green and white dangling above the frame of the painting. One of the roses in the painting wilted at his fierce glare. 

How was it possible that a tiny bit of mistletoe could wreak such havok? Sure, he had bought a sprig or two to mess around in the Slytherin common rooms. Sure, there had been some around the Manor when he was little (though there hadn’t been any in quite a few years). And sure, when he got stuck in it at the Manor, it was sort of fun to get his nurse or his mother to come and press a kiss to his cheek. But _now_? 

This was it. He was going to be fired from the Ministry entirely. Maison would have him out in an instant when the donors showed up and he wasn’t there to let them in. When she found out _why_ , well, she would threaten him with murder first. Then he’d lose his job. And he would promptly be back at square one, back to the hell of five years ago trying to climb his way out of the hole that his choices had left him in. _Fucking fuck_.

Draco tried to move again, but his knees were just as locked as his feet in their neat brown shoes. He tried to arch up to reach the mistletoe to tug it off the wall, but could not quite brush his fingers over the lowest tiny white flower hanging just centimeters above his fingertip. He flicked a curse at it, and another, knowing it would be fruitless, but quickly stopped when the second sparked a bit too close to the lovely crown molding for his liking. 

“Kreacher!” he shouted, re-sheathing his wand in its forearm holster, tucked up under the edge of his rolled up sleeve. Draco twisted, feet still planted, to watch behind him. 

The elf appeared. He at least had the wherewithal to look a little bit embarrassed, eyes downcast and hands pressed together around the long gold chain he always wore. His embarrassment quickly turned to a rather unflattering smirk that he tried (and utterly failed) to hide. Draco nearly snarled with frustration, fist clenched at his side. His head had started to throb again, and Draco was seriously considering a variety of murder options.

“Yes, Draco Malfoy?” Kreacher asked, grinning at the floor.

Draco cleared his throat loudly. Kreacher glanced up at him, and Draco quickly regretted the noise, as that gave him the full force of Kreacher’s glee at his predicament. “When I instructed you to decorate, did I give _any_ indication that I wanted you to bring _mistletoe_?” Each word came out in a staccato beat. He turned back to the painting, pressing a hand to his forehead. _“Any_ indication,” he repeated under his breath.

“No, sir did not indicate mistletoe _in particular_ ,” Kreacher said.

“Please tell me that there is a good reason this is here.” Draco’s voice had gone a bit hollow at the edges. He was imagining the look on the faces of the pair of donors who would arrive in -- he glanced down at the face of his A&S watch -- _oh_ , seventeen fucking minutes. 

Draco resolutely did not turn back towards Kreacher, knowing the elf’s expression would do very little to improve his mood. “It was Mistress Walburga’s favorite,” the elf said. “There hasn’t been mistletoe at Grimmauld since Master Orion died.” 

“Right,” Draco sighed. “And you decided to get the _sticking_ variety because…” he trailed off, sliding his hand back into his pocket to worry over the small piece of onyx stone again. 

“Kreacher had _thought_ he had gotten the non-sticking variety,” the house-elf snickered. Draco was quite sure that this had _not_ been an accident, but he wisely kept his mouth closed. 

“And how, precisely, do you anticipate _releasing_ me?” He glanced over his shoulder. Kreacher was swinging the golden locket around on the chain, staring off down the hall at something Draco could not see. 

“Mr. Draco Malfoy knows that I cannot kiss him.” Kreacher was chewing on his lower lip (a classless behavior, in Draco’s opinion). It _was_ true, unfortunately. An interspecies kiss wouldn’t do the trick, modern reforms be damned, and even if it could, he wasn’t sure he wanted Kreacher’s mouth even near his hand. 

“What am I meant to do?” Draco asked Kreacher, shaking his head. “Salazar, Kreacher, _fix_ this.”

“Kreacher does not know _how_ ,” the elf said bitterly, “And Draco Malfoy is not his master.” And he disapparated with a crack that left Draco feeling somehow even more frustrated.

Draco took a deep breath, letting his fingers settle on the card table beneath the painting. He could think his way out of this, he was sure of it. There had to be some way to remove himself, or get someone here. To deal with this. He looked at his watch again. Fourteen minutes. And Maison said that the Fawley-Flints were never late. 

He felt, rather than heard, the movement to his right. _Something_ was only centimeters away from him, fabric brushing against his far hand by the table. Draco swallowed, skin breaking into a chill. He turned his head, ever-so-slowly so as not to startle whatever it was, and saw nothing. Empty air all to his right. He could see the front door from his position.

Fabric shifted again, and this time he could hear it. The soft sound of something breathing, ghosting past his ear with the near-silent subtlety of something yet unseen. The sound grew infinitesimally closer. Draco thought he might be able to hear a heartbeat.

Out of nowhere to his right, a gruff, and oddly familiar voice snapped, “Close your eyes.” He couldn’t quite place it. The voice sounded about as unhappy with the situation as Draco felt. 

Draco continued to stare, eyes blown wide. He could swear his own heart might just beat right out of his chest, the sound thunderously loud and growing louder in his ears. The phantom, as this must be _him_ , would be able to hear the sound, Draco was sure of it. He could smell him now, the phantom, that same sawdust and vanilla that was always just out of touch in this house. 

The emptiness beside him sighed. It was such an odd sensation, Draco felt, the air itself sighing, and yet sounding quite like a real human right _there_. Like Draco was looking at something out of his periphery and yet whenever he tried to look dead on there was nothing.

He shut his eyes, hands clenched over the edge of the card table. He could draw his wand in an instant, but he worried that that would appear an act of aggression. The phantom was so easily startled.

“They’re closed,” he said, throat tight with anxiety. They weren’t fully closed, of course. He was a Slytherin to the bone, and had mastered the art of the fake-out.

He heard the soft shifting of fabric to his right. Draco watched through his eyelashes as the hint of a green eye and scruffy brown hair emerged, floating in thin air. He did not move. He did not breathe. 

Harry Potter pressed the softest touch of lips to his cheek. His breath brushed over Draco’s cheek with more pressure than his lips had given, warm and soft and smelling like oranges. Draco shut his eyes completely, heart thudding even louder. 

In an instant, Draco felt the mistletoe release and heard the soft _crack_ of disapparition. He vanished the offending plant with a flick of his wand but stayed put, swaying on his feet and staring over at the shyly blooming rose in the painting as the time ticked slowly down. He moved only when the soft _smack_ of the brass door knocker pulled him out of his head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I hope you enjoyed reading this first glimpse of Harry as much as I loved writing it :)
> 
> If you need a bit of Christmas cheer, well, I'd love to send you off to [SonOfAMuggle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonOfAMuggle/pseuds/SonOfAMuggle)'s raucously good dirty Christmas carols, _[Poems or Porn](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020/works/27806368)_ for a great time.


	15. Regulus Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visiting the Black Family History book...

_Thursday, 13 December 2007_

Draco did not return to Grimmauld Place on Monday. He did not return on Tuesday. On Wednesday, he stood outside the entry door staring at the handle like it might scald him if he touched it. And it might have! Other knobs in the house had done so before. He stormed off, retreating to the large library at the Manor. He could use the time to complete some of his notes, anyway. He wasn’t _running_ from Potter or anything. That would be ridiculous.

On Thursday, he apparated into an alley a block from Grimmauld with a _pop_ like the sound of a Christmas cracker, startlingly loud. He steadied himself against the wall, the fierce image of a popper filling his mind, laughing and joyful, with the look on his mother’s face as they tugged it open. That was one of his last _nice_ Christmases. After that, he was “too old” for such frivolity, and ought to learn how to sit at the table and open gifts like a proper young man.

It shouldn’t matter, anyway. He was no more sheltered at six than he was at sixteen. Inside the popper had been an awful little caricaturish figure of a muggle, stooped and horrible. And he had found it funny then. Probably still would have found it funny at sixteen. It wasn’t funny anymore, just nauseating.

Draco wondered if Potter still thought of him as Draco-at-sixteen, or if he might have an inkling that Draco-at-twenty-six was someone new. If those sharp green eyes saw him as that awful, evil child, or as a man who was trying his hardest. Draco wondered if Potter had changed at all in nearly a decade. Was he still as arrogant? Brash and bold, impulsive, self-righteous? Potter had had such an easy time being _good_.

Draco catalogued what he knew, hand running over the ridges of his wand’s handle, tucked neatly in its forearm holster. First, he knew that Harry Potter was not dead, this much was clear from the briefest of glances at the DMLE paperwork. And what a _Gryffindorish_ way of plotting one’s own disappearance it had been.

Second, Harry Potter was living at or staying in Grimmauld Place. Whatever _phantom_ had been stalking the halls was clearly Potter with some sort of super-powered disillusionment spell. He dearly wanted to know how it was Potter was avoiding his sight, but whatever magic it was, it hadn’t masked noise or scent or touch, only sight. And Draco had seen him. Seen whatever spell it was disappear for long enough to see those seething green eyes and that jaw -- so much more defined than Potter-at-sixteen, so much more _adult_.

And thirdly, and possibly most difficult to believe, Harry Potter had seen him working in Grimmauld Place for nearly a month and Draco was uncursed and still able to come and go. If Potter really still had it out for him, there would be no way he could stand just steps from the entry planning to go inside.

The project was not going to go away, Potter-at-twenty-six or no Potter at all. And the first time walking back into Grimmauld was not likely to get any less awkward. Draco took a deep breath and walked up to the door, slipping his wand into his hand. He stared at the deep wooden door, eyes catching on the flicker of stained glass above it. He could do this.

The door creaked open without his needing to press the wand into the knob. Draco swallowed and stepped over the threshold, pushing the door further open as he did so. There was no sign of Potter, but Draco let himself wonder for a moment. _Could Potter be as curious as he was?_ Perhaps they were twin stars, dancing around each other, sizing one another up, waiting and watching and being watched; or two sides of the same coin, flipping one and the other and never quite catching each other straight on.

Draco pushed the door closed behind him, pressing his palms against the wood, against the subtle rippling texture of the wood grain.

“Good morning, Potter,” Draco said, louder than a normal voice, only the slightest bit of antagonism in his tone. If the other man would continue to creep around like a phantom, Draco was not about to back down. The sound echoed slightly in the wide entry hall, but nothing answered back. “Suppose it will be a quiet day today, hmm?” he added, in a speaking voice, looking over the foyer.

Kreacher had removed the rest of the mistletoe, replacing it with the non-sticking sort (notable, of course, for its slightly yellow flowers). The hall was pleasantly decorated now, with genuinely tasteful bits of spruce and greenery. There was even a small tree in the parlor off to Draco’s right, outfitted with silver baubles and lights. And the house seemed a bit brighter, fairy lights aside, like it had taken on some of Draco’s curiosity and fascination.

Draco walked up the stairs. Now that he was over the threshold, the prospect of continuing work on the house was somewhat less daunting. It’s not as though he would need to deal with the awkwardness of shuffling around Potter. There was one benefit to his odd invisibility.

On the third floor, Draco went into the library. Kreacher had been in to dust, and the shelves were positively glowing in the fresh sunlight, the wood tables sparkling with new oil. Draco flashed a quick charm at the big window and the color of the light shifted _just so_ from a bright white to a softer yellow. It would filter the more damaging qualities of direct sunlight and extend the life of the gorgeous tomes here. Draco crouched, eyeing some of the titles he had not yet listed in his catalogue. A first edition of _Hogwarts: A History_. A full set of Beedle the Bard’s works, in their original manuscript form. Some muggle books too, Shakespeare and Chaucer, and a run of Diderot’s encyclopedias with their attached wizarding appendix.

But none of these were the book he was here to find. Draco tugged _The Black Family History_ free from its shelf with careful hands on either side. He paged through it, past walls of text and woodcut portraits of his ancestors who waved and frowned and snarked at him as he flipped to the more recent history.

 _Regulus Arcturus Black_. The room labelled R.A.B. settled into deeper clarity in Draco’s mind. Of course the house would protect him, and would keep the space of this young man safe. Draco ran a finger over the inky label of Regulus’ life dates. He was only eighteen. His portrait was still, black lines of the neat woodcut print unmoving, but it looked so unbearably young.

The entry on Regulus Black in _Lost But Not Forgotten: Unsung Heroes of the Wizarding War_ had been very brief, but Draco had re-read it over and over until he had nearly memorized the words.

Regulus had taken the Mark at sixteen. Draco let his hand drift to his own left forearm, fingers tracing the lines of the tattoo he knew too well. Regulus had taken the mark at the same age as Draco had. He had had the same family. _Sanctimonia vincet semper_ and _toujours pur_ \- one and the same in meaning: Malfoy and Black had been a perfect marriage.

And yet, within a year of taking the Mark, Regulus had turned. Had done the _right thing_. Had put himself at risk and could have changed the whole course of the war. Had died for it, died doing the _right thing_. Draco had been such a coward. He traced over the words on the page, eyes bright and chest aching. What did it mean that a _Black_ , his _cousin_ , had turned against it all? Was that kind of courage in him too? Or was it lost among the Malfoy blood in him?

The woodcut portrait of Regulus blinked, startling him, and the ink curled into a soft smile on the page.

“I know who you are,” a soft voice rasped, wispy with disuse.

Draco startled, staring down at the tiny portrait, eyes wide. He flipped the page, eyes scanning over the back of it. Only the faint indentation of the print showed on the other side. Regulus made an annoyed noise, paper-thin and grumpy. Draco settled his page gently back down, portrait side facing up.

“Draco Lucius Black Malfoy,” Regulus said, arching a single dark eyebrow. The expression looked so deeply similar to his mother’s that his heart ached for a moment.

Draco nodded. “Yes,” he sighed, running a hand over the wood grain of the table.

“You’ll find yourself in here too, you know,” Regulus added quietly. He had a somber sense about him, the deep and slightly bittersweet tone of someone who has spent time contemplating mortality. But his eyes were bright, hopeful, even in the thick black ink.

Draco’s eyebrows creased. “But I’m not a Black,” he frowned, “My mother was, but she gave up her name when she married.” Some witches retained their names and their house status when they married, when they sought a partner outside the Twenty-Eight, or when one house was more powerful than another. But Narcissa had become a Malfoy, through and through, and that meant that she was no longer heir to the Black name, only her own modest fortune.

Regulus shook his head, the lines in the ink twisting to follow his closely shaved dark hair. “Perhaps this is how it is done with the Malfoys,” he said, “But the Blacks are collectors. We keep track of all of ours.” He was quiet for a beat before he added, “Even the ones disowned.”

“All of them?” Draco asked, voice soft, tight in his throat. He thought of the Malfoy records, constantly revising themselves, cutting and deleting without care. _L’historie de la Famille de Malfoi_ was a patchwork of carefully reconstructed lies. He wondered how easy it would be for him to be erased from the book entirely.

“Each and every one,” Regulus answered. He laughed a little, a papery sound, “We all get to know each other, being bound up in here for a few decades and shut away.”

“The new master of the house doesn’t come in here much,” Draco asked, though it was more of a statement than a question. The whorls of dust, though beginning to disperse with his more frequent visits, were a clear distinction from the rest of the house.

“We have theorized he’s not much of one for reading,” Regulus answered lightly. “Though he is not a Black by name, so it’s to be expected.”

“Is it lonely?” Draco asked without thinking. He felt so much more raw, with the book wide open and not a living soul nearby. The thought caught him, and he looked up from the book and the portrait to survey the room. He sat a little straighter, back more stiff, and found himself frowning without even meaning to do so. Was Potter here? Was he watching him?

Regulus’ face grew softer, little crinkles of ink appearing at the corners of his eyes. It made him look older, somehow, wiser. As if he were no longer but an eighteen-year-old boy but a man, older certainly than Draco. “Kreacher comes and chats from time to time, and it’s nice to get a touch of sunlight when he does.”

Draco shifted the book closer to the rays of light, though slightly dimmed from his charm, pouring from the window. Regulus turned his face as if to catch it, letting the flickers of light dance across his page. “Not too long,” Draco murmured, “Don’t want to do damage to the paper.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “I’ll spend the rest of eternity shut up in this book, Malfoy,” he said, “I can manage a bit of sunlight without getting bleached out, I swear it.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the light glittering off the pale page and stark ink, highlighting the subtle edges in the page where the text and the woodblock’s corners had left an inkless impression. Draco lifted the page, letting the light pour through it and highlight the lines left behind by the paper-making process.

A soft sound across the table made Draco look up. He narrowed his eyes at the chair pulled out. He was quite sure it had been pushed in properly when he arrived. And as he looked, the soft motes of dust lit by the sun seemed subtly to avoid a human-shaped area in the chair. Which meant…

Potter was here. Watching him. He let the page fall back down with a grumble from Regulus and cleared his throat, eyes on the empty space above the chair.

Nothing moved. Not Draco, nor Potter in the chair. Regulus crossed his inky arms, a faintly bemused expression across his eyes.

No curses cast. Not a word said. Draco waited, and not a thing happened.

It was Regulus’ sigh that broke the silence first. “I see you’ve inherited the Black flair for the dramatic,” he muttered, looking at his fingers at the edge of the portrait’s border. Draco’s eyes flicked down to the page, then back to the haze of dust and nothingness.

“Thank you,” Draco said, under his breath. He turned the pages quickly, knowing his own name would be nearby if Regulus’ was here. He passed nearly a dozen Weasleys with wide eyes, electing not to think too closely about that connection, and a few cousins he knew about, and some he didn’t, and then he was there.

 _Draco Lucius Black Malfoy, b. 5 June 1980._ He ran a finger over his name, eyeing his frozen portrait. It would not begin to move unless he had died or gave it explicit permission to speak for him. But the likeness was uncanny, with the precise line of the curse scar over his collarbone, his fine, angular nose, and too-sharp cheekbones. His hair even matched the length it was getting to now, slightly scruffier than it ever had been in school, soft and tousled at the top and cut close on the sides. There were so many little ways to rebel.

This Draco wore a collared shirt, open at the neck, as he often did under his robes in the winter, and though the black ink gave no hint at the color, he would swear it appeared to be the dark navy of his Preservationist robes. This Draco wore a Guild pin with the Preservationist logo and he was… Well, he was almost smiling. Draco frowned in response, but the portrait just kept on with that little quirk of the corner of his mouth like the hint that the possibility of a smile might be just barely out of sight.

His eyes flicked up to the empty chair, and back to the page, too quick to get caught (or so he hoped). He let his hand trail over the columns of text, detailing the story of his childhood and the Manor and his mother and on and on. He flipped through another page or two, scanning over the tightly-compressed text until he got to a small date marker written in red ink.

 _1998 - 1999 - DLM served one full year at Erendor_. He had been lucky, then, with a lighter sentence, though he hadn’t known it at the time. The dementor-free, low-security prison had still been impenetrable walls as dark and fear-inducing as the Manor had been when Voldemort was its Warden.

The next lines detailed his two years of house arrest and the beginnings of his work on the Manor (in embarrassingly complimentary detail). It spoke about his first project at the Ministry, his work with “William Arthur Weasley (b. 1970)” on that awful, cursed first house.

He looked at the empty chair one final time, and a tiny smirk settled on the corners of his lips. “ _DLM’s new rise to Ministry accomplishment was characterized by a growing acceptance of his work by peers and others._ Growing acceptance, Potter. _”_

 _“Notably, DLM expelled father Lucius Malfoy (b. 1953) from the Manor residences, claiming his inheritance early. The House maintained the claim and DLM took full Mastery.”_ He glanced over, anxious to see if Potter had run off, but there was no clear sign either way. “I’m rather proud of that, you know,” he said, hand resting on the page. “We weren’t certain it would work, but by Salazar, it _did_.” Lucius wasn't entirely gone, of course, and his marriage to Narcissa was still valid, but it removed him from his Wizengamot seat and his Hogwarts governorship, and significantly limited his financial power.

“ _DLM’s continued work restoring old anti-Voldemort properties is matched by his charity--_ ah, suppose we can stop reading,” he said, a faint blush high on his cheekbones. He swallowed hard, thinking of Bill.

“In any case, Potter,” he continued, eyes on the table and most certainly not flickering up to the empty chair, “I am well aware of the extent of the apology that I owe you, and which I was not able to deliver before your, er, _passing_.”

He pressed his fingers into the wood grain on the table, letting his mind sink into that texture and away from the words he was saying. “And I know that words do very little to make up for the horrific actions I took during our shared time at Hogwarts. But,” he took a deep breath. This never got easier. “For what it is worth, I _am_ deeply sorry, not only for,” he waved a hand awkwardly, “how I treated you and your -- your friends. But also for the actions I took far beyond the scope of Hogwarts.”

Silence settled across the table. He could not be entirely certain that Potter was still sitting there, but he also couldn’t be entirely certain that he wasn’t. Draco didn’t breathe.

The book shifted across the table. It moved slowly, not as if it were summoned, but as if it were moved, ever-so-gently, by hand. As if Potter had been watching the reverence with which Draco had treated the book earlier, and as if he was copying him now.

Draco watched as Potter, invisibly, flicked through the pages to the start of the _Draco Lucius Malfoy_ section. He watched as Potter read, or so he assumed, from the way the pages turned slowly, one at a time. As if Potter were savoring the chance to get to know him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, it's all downhill from here. Hope you're ready, because we're about to get _emotional_ , and not just about the beautiful old things. C'mon and shout at me [on Tumblr](http://www.the-starryknight.tumblr.com) if you feel like it!
> 
> I am in absolute awe of the _length_ of [DevilRising]()'s 25 Days fic, _[Vanished](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020/works/27812644)_. Featuring a Vanishing cabinet, and only one bed, and Unspeakable Malfoy, and getting trapped together and so many things I can't wait to read more about. Hope you'll enjoy it too!


	16. Checkmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Deputy Head Auror Weasley's Office.

_Friday, 14 December 2007_

Draco had a fantastic (terrible) sense of deja-vu as he stormed down the Ministry hallway on the second floor towards the Auror bullpen. His navy robes billowed out behind him, a dramatic and menacing appearance. He had dressed to the nines today, determined that it would work out as planned. These were the formal, traditional Preservationist robes, with his gold guild pin gleaming from his chest, and the tiny buttons down the right side of the robes. He wore rings on both hands, heirlooms from the Black and Malfoy families, carefully maintained and only worn when he was positively desperate for the emotional support that their weight on his hands could bring.

He thundered down the hall, hesitating for only a moment before he stepped through the doorway into the buzzing _noise_ of the Auror’s offices. That awful maroon color assaulted his senses, so bright and so _everywhere_ that Draco thought he might be able to smell it. Even if the color had some ridiculous _historic_ basis, it seemed insane to Draco that they would not have at _least_ petitioned to change it. How could anyone go about their day staring at so much red all the time? _Perhaps_ that _was why Potter had quit the Aurors_ , he thought cheekily. Draco would have, had it been him in Potter’s place.

In any case, it wasn’t him in Potter’s place, and so he thundered through the sea of Aurors and desks to the office at the back wall. He did not hesitate before raising a fist to knock hard on Deputy Head Auror Ronald Weasley’s door.

No one answered.

He knocked again. Just as he was preparing to send a rather _choice_ spell at the door, something shifted behind him. He sighed, less startled than he might have been had something unseen appeared behind him a month ago. He turned around, and managed an entirely haughty and not at all sheepish expression at Weasley. The Deputy Head Auror wore his robes open over a loose shirt and -- were those _jeans_? Draco shuddered, stepping aside with his nose in the air.

“Weas-- Deputy Head Auror,” Draco corrected carefully, pressing his hands behind his back in some semblance of an at-attention stance. Weasley raised his eyebrows, pressing past Draco and into the office. He was balancing a small box and a cup of coffee in one hand, pressing the door open with his shoulder. It wasn’t right, Draco thought, that this Weasley was nearly as tall as his brother, and as such leaned over him as he passed.

Draco cleared his throat, shoving into the room behind him. Weasley set the box down on the desk, atop a rather large pile of papers, and took the lid off of the coffee. Draco had a whiff of it and crinkled his nose at the pale color and sickly-sweet scent swirling from it. But Weasley sipped it as if it were perfect, making a soft and pleased noise. Draco shuddered.

Weasley sank into the wide chair behind the desk, eyes on Draco. Draco hesitated. Weasley hadn’t actually invited him into the little office, though at the same time, he hadn’t kicked him right out either. So he flicked his wand at the door, slamming it shut with a click, and stalked over to the ridiculously uncomfortable chair that was _short_ and _orange_ and most certainly from _Ikea_. Draco sat at the very edge of it, keeping his hands away from the arms of it, nose crinkling at the thought of touching the well-worn fabric. _Orange_.

He was about to speak when he noticed Weasley opening the little white box. And eating from it. Draco did not need to cast a _tempus_ to know that it was not even nine in the morning. And here was Weasley with a forkful of buche de noel as if it were an appropriate time for pudding. Draco watched as he shoveled one chocolatey bite into his mouth, dropping bits of hard chocolate as he went. Appalling.

Weasley picked up a file and began to read it, continuing to eat, and utterly unbothered by Draco. It was unsettling, and unfair that Weasley had any capacity _to_ unsettle him. Draco cleared his throat.

“You didn’t seem up to being very social at the Ball,” Draco began, folding his hands in his lap, and not watching as yet another blob of chocolatey goo dropped back into the box.

“No,” Weasley said, eyebrows raised. “But that’s not what you’re here to talk about, is it?”

Draco frowned at him, slightly bothered at being caught out. “It’s not, no.” He considered his next words carefully before speaking again. “I want to speak about Harry Potter.”

“Right,” Weasley sighed. “Look, I gave you more than I even ought to have done, with that file and all.”

“It’s not about the case, per se,” he said quietly. Weasley narrowed his eyes at him and finally set down the papers he had been looking at.

“What’s it about, then?”

Draco looked down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap, and considered exactly how he would go about this conversation. He had planned it out in his head, imagined forcing his way into the office, putting Weasley at wand point and risking the whole of the Auror office coming down on him, imagined threatening him with the hint of some kind of secret. He hadn’t expected Weasley to play along. To let him into the office a _second_ time, and this time without Pansy or another Auror watching.

“Look, Malfoy,” Weasley sighed, waving his fork in Draco’s direction, “I don’t actually have endless free time for your little,” he wiggled the fork in description, “Fits, or whatever. Out with it, or out with _you_.”

Draco swallowed hard and looked up at him, at that ridiculously freckled face and that hair that had _clearly_ only ever had a cheap haircut.

“I know that Harry Potter is alive,” he said, meeting Weasley’s gaze. To his credit, Weasley’s face remained mostly composed. He set the fork down and lifted his wand, and Draco heard the soft _pop_ of a strong Muffliato charm settling between them, over the office. He shivered, hating the sensation in his ears.

“And I know you know it too, before you try to deny it,” Draco added, not looking away. Weasley squinted at him, seeming to puzzle him over, before he picked up his fork again and took another bite. “I’ve seen him with you, at the Ball.” He thinks backward too, “At the Victory Day celebration, he was there, wasn’t he?” He couldn’t be entirely certain that it was Potter, given the whole invisibility issue, but it seemed like the only logical conclusion. Unless Weasley had two frequently-invisible friends.

Weasley finally spoke, mouth moving around a large bite of cake, “And what are you going to do about it?”

“What am I going to do about it?” Draco echoed, incredulous. In every iteration of this interaction he had considered with Weasley, _Draco_ doing something about Potter hadn’t come up. Perhaps that was the Preservationist in him. Leave the house as he found it, let the conservators make the changes. Question everything, of course, but it wasn’t up to him to alter the House, or in this case, Potter.

“Right, is this…” Weasley shook his head at him, the fork waving with a bit of chocolate still stuck to it, “Blackmail? A friendly chat? Do you want confirmation?”

“None of the above,” Draco muttered. Leave it to yet another Weasley to continue to throw him off his game.

“As if I have _any need_ for blackmail. Salazar, Weasley,” Draco snarked, voice tight, pressing the heel of his hand into his thigh, over the soft fabric of his uniform. “I _know_ it’s Potter, whatever this thing is at Grimmauld Place.”

“And I know he has some sort of,” Draco waved a hand in a vaguely human-shaped motion, “Cloak?” Weasley’s eyebrows twitched _just barely_ at that word, and Draco mentally filed that expression away for later consideration. “I don’t know exactly _what_ it is, but it’s long and fabric and must be imbued with some particularly strong disillusionment spells, and I just can’t quite imagine Potter dashing about Grimmauld in a dress.”

Although, once the words were out of his mouth, he _did_ wonder if Potter could pull off a dress. The man he had once seen splashed across the tabloids looked as though he could wear anything and make it look _excellent_.

“So you think that Harry Potter is alive and, what,” Weasley affected a disbelieving tone, “Hanging out at the Grimmauld Place? While you preserve it, or whatever it is you lot do?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Draco said, utterly insistent despite Weasley’s disbelief. “I _know_ precisely all of that is true.”

Weasley set the fork back down, pushing the little white box off into another corner of the desk. He took another drink of his coffee. And then he put his hands together, the tips of the fingers steepled against each other. He looked down his hands at Draco. Draco waited, and so did Weasley.

It was a stalemate, until Weasley broke the silence. “I’m not confirming anything, but if I _were_ going to, that still wouldn’t tell me what it is you want. Why are you in my office?”

“Because _I_ don’t know _why_ ,” Draco huffed. He hated admitting that he didn’t know something, and it seemed so glaringly obvious that that was the problem. “It doesn’t make any sense. He’s got the perfect job, the perfect life, he’s got you and Granger both, a giant vault, could do _literally_ anything in the world. _What_ is he doing at Grimmauld Place?”

Weasley swallowed, eyes on Draco, though his expression was unreadable. Draco sat forward in the chair, meeting his gaze, trying to get _anything_ out of him.

He continued, pressing on. “And if it really is Potter, then why hasn’t he sent me flying out the door?” It was a question he asked himself again every time he walked through the doors to Number Twelve unscathed. Why was he able to come and go so freely? If Potter was there, wouldn’t he want his privacy?

“That one, I think I could answer,” Weasley said, voice quieter, more genuine than it had been so far, “For the same reasons that you’re here in my office, mate. Do you really think that I’d be sitting here all civil if Bill hadn’t given me a good talking-to about you? We know you're _reformed_ , or trying, whatever.” He muttered under his breath, just loud enough to hear, "Trying my patience, certainly."

“And,” Weasley added, louder, frowning at Draco with a still-unreadable expression. “If there _is_ a ghost in Grimmauld Place, and if that _ghost_ happens to be Harry, who _happens_ to be alive, then I think he might get a bit, y’know.”

“I don’t know,” Draco said, though he thought he really, truly did know.

“Lonely,” Weasley said gruffly. “Stuck in there all the time. I mean, he travels a good bit -- you know, _hypothetically_ \-- but there’s not too many other people that -er- _go_ to Grimmauld Place. You know.”

“Lonely,” Draco scoffed. The savior of the wizarding world was _lonely_. Wasn’t it his own fault for locking himself away in the great gorgeous tower of Grimmauld Place?

Weasley frowned at him, eyebrows creasing in a way that reminded him distinctly of Bill. “I shouldn’t be saying any of this,” Weasley said in a huff. “Mione would go all off at me, I can _hear_ her voice.” He looked genuinely upset at the thought, and Draco pitied him for a moment. An angry Granger was a terrifying thing, he knew that bit first hand.

“But?” Draco asked, picking up the uptick in Weasley’s voice.

Weasley took a long breath, staring him down over the tips of his fingers, and then ran both hands through his orange curls. “I’ve made a commitment, Malfoy. That I wouldn’t share a certain bit of information I may or may not know about Harry. With anyone.”

“I’m not asking for--”

“Shh,” Weasley said, putting a hand up. “Don’t make me regret talking.” Draco nodded, pressing his lips together.

Weasley continued slowly. “I don’t think anybody much minds you being at Grimmauld. I’d guess it’s sort of nice, you know, having someone around. But,” Weasley said carefully, “If Harry is alive and not dead, as you say. If he faked his disappearance, or whatever you think _might_ have happened… Well, he’d want a bit of privacy, don’t you think? Not many other people to _know_ , you know?”

Draco nodded, taking in Weasley’s words but not entirely processing them. “Right, privacy,” he murmured.

“So _if_ \-- and I mean _if_ , Malfoy, don’t misunderstand me,” Weasley had a tinge of that Deputy-Head in his voice now, “ _If_ you know something about Harry, you’d be right smart to keep it to yourself. There’s not many people who can access the wards at Grimmauld Place. You’d be wise not to take advantage of that.”

Draco swallowed, refusing to be intimidated by the harsh, militaristic edge in Weasley’s voice, but he nodded. He had no idea what he would say to Maison and Saroya, but the reality of Potter’s situation was becoming clearer and clearer. And right along with it was the reality that he was now a part of Harry Potter’s tiny circle. Whether or not that was a good thing (for him or for Potter) was yet to be determined.

But he thought maybe, just maybe, he might like to figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Orpheous87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orpheous87/pseuds/orpheous87)'s _[This Christmas (will be one to remember)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27827464)_ is full of lovely domestic sweetness, with an established relationship as they prepare for Christmas!


	17. The Scorched Tapestry

_Friday, 14 December 2007 (Evening)_

Draco stood facing the massive Black family tapestry. It stretched across the room, covering the walls from floor to ceiling, thickly woven. He could smell the heaviness of it, the smell of old fabric much like that of ancient books, carrying the weight of ages past.

Though he did very little of the actual conservation work, family tapestries held a special place in his mind. He had worked on the McKinnon tapestry for three weeks while the conservators had taken up the real work of the furniture and the wallpaper and the rugs and all the rest. Draco had sat in the silent room, repairing the massive tear rent into it when the Death Eaters had raged into the McKinnon household. All around him, the conservators had worked, sending magic and dust and the acidic smell of carefully-selected cleaning potions and varnish and all the rest re-filling the house with life magic. But it was the tapestry that wove the generations of owners together, and the tapestry that maintained the house magic, and the tapestry that could only be repaired by hand.

Of course, it was the work on the tapestry at the Manor that had started it all. In a fit of rage, Lucius had scalded Draco right out of it, angry at the state of the war and the pressures of hosting Voldemort. Draco had felt the burn as if it were playing across his skin, hot as fiendfyre and as deeply resonant as though the generations before had been removed from him, leaving him floating, free and yet entirely alone. 

In those years of house arrest, he had spent hours staring at the tapestry, at that little burn mark scalded over his name, blotting out his face.

And then Narcissa had brought out the embroidery thread, tucked up in a little basket that Draco had never seen before. She showed him the lace she had made, tiny needles clicking away over a cloth bright and white and softer than anything he had ever seen around the manor. She showed him the wide tapestry needle, the basket full of threads in every color imaginable. And he had begun work. 

The image of the Malfoy tapestry, stretching out around him in every direction fell away as he peered at the Black tapestry. He crouched down towards the bottom of it, running a hand over the name labelled _Draco Lucius Malfoy_ , over _Regulus Arcturus Black_ , the tiny portraits shifting but silent in the threads. 

And there. _Sirius Orion Black._ Draco had read the entry in Ken Ames’s _A Brief History of the Great Wars_ , soaking in the description of the heroic man who had helped the Order in both wars, who had sacrificed his life in a battle against-- Draco swallowed tightly -- against his aunt and his father. It was clear in _A Brief History_ that everything Draco had learned about Sirius Black had been entirely wrong, strung through with his parents’ (and his own) twisted misunderstanding of the world. 

So if this house was meant to be _for_ the Order, for the Great War Historical Society, then the magic would need to be prepared. The original Black member of the Order of the Phoenix would need to be sewn back to his rightful place. 

Draco shuffled his notes, including the duplicated pages from _The Black Family History_ , and settled down on his knees in front of the small scorch mark not far from the door. He took a long breath and closed his eyes, wand settling into his hand. He pressed one hand onto the tapestry right above the scorch mark and cast a subtle spell, sensing where the damage ended. It had been a very hasty scorch, as if done by someone who was holding back in their vitriol. It would not be so difficult to repair.

He tilted his wand against the tapestry, casting an extraordinarily gentle cleaning charm, just to dislodge any loose bits of scorched thread and collected dust. In the other regions of the tapestry, the dust would not stick, brushed away by the magic of the threads, but here, it was prone to sticking where the magic had faded. Well, no matter. A few crisped threads dislodged, he set his wand at his side.

The rest would be done by hand and speech, no wand involved. Draco drew out a thick tapestry needle from his bag, threading it with a dull brown shade, the same color of the border of each of the miniature portraits in the fabric elsewhere. He leaned forward on his knees, breath catching in his throat as it always did when he made the first motion on a new project. He guided the needle down to the lowest edge of the marr, pressing it into the fabric. The silver needle sank into the fabric, drawing the thread along, a careful line. 

“Sirius Orion Black,” he murmured, “1959 to 1996.” He said it again as he passed the thread through again, and again and again. Over and over, as he pushed the needle through the thick fabric, letting it link with the magic threaded through the tapestry, did he repeat the name, imparting every image of the words as he wove the needle back and forth. 

The soft sound of the door opening drew his attention away for only a second, and the needle stilled, partway through the deep ochre-brown border. Draco looked up, but saw nothing. The door, which had been closed, was slightly ajar, but he could see no evidence of where Potter might be, if indeed he was in the room. 

He picked the needle back up, pressing it into the tapestry and wincing as the sharp back edge pushed back into his finger. He kept at his litany of the name, voice barely above a whisper. The magic was already responding to him, adding dimension and depth to the thin line of brown, as if it _wanted_ him to make this repair. As if it wanted Sirius to rejoin the ranks of the Black family, and perhaps Draco could come right along with him.

Draco was threading the needle with a new color when he _heard_ or rather, _felt_ a soft brush of fabric but a few centimeters from where he sat. He looked over, searching for any sign of Potter and saw nothing. But he knew he was there. He could hear, now that he knew to listen, the subtle sound of his breathing, careful and quiet in the silent room. And when he looked straight ahead at the tapestry, it was like he could see something in the corner of his eye just barely out of view, but there was nothing when he looked at the spot straight on. 

And so he worked. But the room felt quiet, even with his murmurings, so he flicked his wand, setting a bit of Tchaikovsky to play. The soft music filled the room and filled the quiet between them, and Draco kept on, re-threading the needle with soft hues of brown and tan and gray for the standard Black eyes, and a soft red for the moue of his lips.

And all the while, he kept his little litany, every detail he had learned. “Sirius Black was the oldest son of Walburga and Orion,” he whispered as he stitched in a rough outline of Black’s long and wavy hair. The magic took to the thread, giving it fresh definition, adding strands and fixing Draco’s rough lines. “Sirius Black attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry from 1971 to 1978,” he said to the tapestry as he tugged a soft tan hue for the little crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. “Sirius Black escaped Azkaban in 1993,” Draco added, weaving a touch of gray into his scruffy mustache. 

He had been working for at least two hours before he heard it the first time. Soft, the ghost of a whisper, but _present._ Just off to his right, he heard the voice, scratchy and familiar and frightening all at once. “Sirius Black drank his coffee with three spoons of sugar,” was the first comment, so quiet it could have been but the sound of the house creaking around them. Draco echoed it, pressing the needle into the whites of Sirius’s eyes with careful fingers.

Draco did not chance a glance at his near-silent partner, working away with the facts he had pulled from _A Brief History_ , and the book on the Blacks, and from _Unsung Heroes_ too. He had been awake until the wee hours of the morning, repeating the words back to himself like a spell, like a chant. And now Potter’s words were weaving in with his. 

“Sirius Black was one of four best friends, the Marauders,” Potter murmured, and then, “He was an illegal animagus, a black Irish Wolfhound.” Draco looked at the empty space beside him, searching to see if Potter was having him on. But that voice sounded certain, resolved, if a bit peaky. He was relatively certain that Potter would understand the need for seriousness at this work. He echoed the words, passing the thread through to form the bridge of his nose. 

They kept at it, Draco offering bland facts gleaned from thick history books, and Potter providing the rich details. The things that make a person alive. Sirius’ favorite foods, the way he left books upside down, breaking the spines, the way he always seemed to have dirt somewhere on him, the way that he would take hot showers for hours and hours and hours and avoid Order meetings.

“Sirius Black’s life partner was Remus John Lupin,” Potter said, voice like an echo of an echo, just out of range. 

“Sirius Black’s life partner was Remus John Lupin,” Draco said, and a tiny silver link blossomed beneath his fingers, off to the side of his work, in the unburnt region of the tapestry. A small miniature had formed with the likeness of a young man with short brown hair and a disjointed nose, tied inexorably to Sirius’s. This was the way of these tapestries -- when they were in good condition, they would continue, adding branches to the tree with no need for a wizard’s oversight. And as Draco had begun to heal the marr where Sirius had been, Sirius’s life magic was woven back into the fabric of it. And now Remus Lupin’s was too, knit there with Sirius’s, intertwined forever as yet another honorary Black. 

They kept at it, passing stories back and forth in stoic companionship as Draco worked, for another several hours. Draco wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he thought he might be finished. There was no more evidence of the scorch-mark, just a soft and smiling Sirius Black beaming out at them from the loose threads. He looked perfect, the magic woven into his portrait, smoothing Draco’s rough stitches into something perfect, comprensible, almost handsome. It was a perfect portrait. They had done it -- fixed the tapestry, brought Sirius right back into it where he belonged. 

Draco sat back on his feet, admiring his work. The tapestry seemed to shimmer, to shiver with a refreshed light. Sirius’ tiny name, woven back into the threads with little evidence of his erasure, glowed a soft red, lit with magic. His line -- to Walburga, and Orion, to Regulus, to Remus Lupin -- lit up too, and each name took on a soft glow, as if they were each along a line of fairy lights, strung together like glowing baubles, lit all around the border of each image. 

He stood up slowly, knees cracking, and settled on the wide bench in the middle of the room, eyes tracing the lines as they lit up. The whole tapestry seemed to shimmer like a vast field of grapevine lines, each placard’s thread shimmering and colorful and linked together with twining, silvery threads. His own name shone with a bright green, vibrant as the rest of the Black family. 

He let his hands rest on either side of him, fingers pricked sore from the thread, the head of the needle and looked over the tapestry. The lights reflected in his eyes, danced over his hands, and cast the room in a soft glow. He sat there, for a long moment, soaking in the lights and the beauty of his finished work. 

And then he felt it. Tentative. Careful. The tiniest brush, almost imperceptible. Of a hand settling over his. Fingers slotting into place, not _quite_ interlocking with his own but most certainly _there_. There was a soft brush of fabric, something as gentle and cool as water, as if it were made of liquid silver. But the hand that rested over his was warm and solid and _alive_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was re-reading [That Old Black Magic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20228980) this week and found Bixgirl1's wonderful bit that this chapter reminds me of (avoiding specifics to avoid spoilers). Anyway. I wasn't thinking about That Old Black Magic when I wrote this chapter. I've always loved the thought that there's something special about tapestry magic, and I hope I've done the idea justice here.
> 
> And today's holiday rec is for [panicparade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/panicparade/pseuds/panicparade)'s _[destination, destiny and definition](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27824773/chapters/68120365)_ , a fluffy and lovely falling in love story featuring mistaken identities, muggle tech turned wizarding, and letters back and forth and all the good vibes. Check it out!


	18. Lie of Omission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An update with Maison.

_Monday, 17 December 2007_

If Draco had not been utterly anxious about his morning meeting with Maison, he probably would have stopped to stare disparagingly at the Ministry’s latest _attempt_ at Christmas decorations. Eschewing any sense of decorum or tradition, they had broken out a series of Christmas trees bedecked in flashing colors all along the main halls. The office talk was that the higher-ups were attempting some sort of _representation_ , some kind LGBTQ+-affirming diversity initiative. The effect might have been attractive or interesting or at all relevant to their mission had it been a few trees in rainbow colors. Instead, the entire hall looked like something out of a Diagon Alley joke shop, with trees blinking between typical green shades and vibrant rainbow colors in an assaultive lightshow.

The overall effect left Draco with a rather enormous headache blossoming by the time he reached Maison’s office door, which he thought was rather anti-affirming. Clearly leaving it to the straight decoration committee had been a mistake on the Ministry’s part. But he wasn’t dwelling. He wasn’t. He ran a hand through his hair, fixing the slight muss in his artful blond tousle and pushed the door open with a soft knock.

When Maison looked up at him with a wide, excited expression, he was glad that he had decided to wear his full uniform today, collared shirt and deep blue robes pinned to the neck. He had the Malfoy gene that would turn his entire neck a bright red when he lied. It was a Slytherin’s way, of course, to talk around the point and avoid lying as much as ever possible, but he was quite sure today would require a few lies.

He settled into the tiny, uncomfortable chair, tugging the Number Twelve file from his bag without making eye contact with her.

“Draco,” she said, folding her hands on the desk, long nails snapping sharply against the wood.

“My latest update,” he said, passing over a small packet of papers. The material detailed his work over the past month on the house, his in-progress inventories and his plans for the Conservators. It included his notes about various rooms, his estimations for the time left to inventory, and an outline of the types of work that would need to be done. They were incredibly detailed notes but for one small ellison. They did _not_ include any notes about Potter. Whatsoever.

Maison looked through the pages with an expression of interest which turned quickly sour. She set the pages down on the desk between them. “Tell me,” she began, voice sharp and beautiful, “how was your visit with the Scamanders?”

“Very good,” Draco answered quickly, “I imagine we’ve secured a notable donation from them.” And their visit had gone well, even though Draco had spent the entire time reeling with the shock of Potter’s revelation. And Potter had stayed well clear of the tour, no sign of him or Kreacher about.

“And did their visit remind you of how significant this project is for your future?” she asked, a single neatly sculpted eyebrow arched.

“This project is important not only to the Department and the Preservationists’ Guild, because of our connections with the Great War Society,” he rattled off the standard response, “but also because it’s a notable Order of the Phoenix historic site in dire need of preservation.”

“Right,” she snapped, “and because it’s the last thing standing between you and a proper title in this damned department.”

Draco swallowed, staring down at the folder in his hands. He _had_ worked so hard to get to this point. Years of tiny projects with no real purpose, years of research and study and apprenticeship with Maison and Bill and others in the Guild. Years of building a new reputation for himself, removed from the Malfoy mess and instead about _creating_ and _safeguarding_ history in the right kind of ways.

It wasn’t fair, really, that what would stand in the way now was in no way a reflection of his work or skill. It wasn’t something he could change at all. And yet, it was the same thing that had stood in the way again and again at every difficult turn in his Hogwarts years. Harry _bloody_ Potter.

“Draco,” she said in a softer voice. “You and I both know you should have been a full Preservationist three years ago. _Would_ have been one. That McKinnon house should have been yours from the foundation up, or at very least, a full partnership.”

“I know that,” he answered, meeting her gaze. “I’m _very_ good at what I do.”

“Why, then,” she went on, “is there no mention of the Ghost in these files? Not a single word, not a nod to a sighting, not any forward motion in your research as to who he is?”

Draco kept his hands firmly on his lap, though he wanted to run one over the back of his neck, which he could feel growing warm.

“The Ghost,” Draco echoed, buying himself time, “as I’ve said, I believe I might have been mistaken in thinking there was a _ghost_ , per se.” Not a lie.

She gave him a sharp look, and he quickly continued, “In fact, I’ve confirmed it. There is no ghost, no poltergeist, no phantom. Not at Grimmauld Place.”

“I find this hard to believe,” she said. She sat back in her wide desk chair, offering him a hard look, her hands curling over the arms of the chair. “When we spoke a month ago, you were absolutely certain that there was something in the house. And at the ball, were you _lying_ about all the sightings?”

“Malfoys do not _lie_ ,” he snapped. “At the _ball_ , I was very concerned with doing your bidding as you foisted me off on every old biddy on the Great War Society board. And I did it quite well, I would hazard, given that stack of donation paperwork,” he nodded to the small mountain on the corner of her desk.

“This is precisely my point,” she gestured to the pile, “Your _stories_ resonated with the Society people. How do we get from ‘Oh yes, Saroya Vane, let me tell you all about the Ghost of Grimmauld Place,’” she affected a lilting imitation of his more posh accent, “To not a single mention in ten pages of documentation from the last two weeks.”

“Updated information?” he offered carefully.

“ _Updated information,”_ she scoffed, voice bitter. She shook her head at him, seeming at a loss for words. “Draco, I am _on_ your _side._ What is it about this house? This Ghost, or whatever it is.”

“I’m not being intentionally difficult,” he began, selecting his words, “I only mean to include accurate information in my material, and the most up-to-date information is that there is nothing at Grimmauld Place to suggest the presence of a ghost.”

Maison sighed, running a hand over her immaculate bun with her immaculate nails. She pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose, pressing hard as she shut her eyes. When she opened them again, she put her hands together, steepling her fingers and turning that sharp gaze on him. Draco met her gaze, sitting forward in his chair, buoyed with the success of his side-stepping.

“I know you well enough to know that your allegations a month ago were based on something legitimate. You sent me an owl after hours nearly quitting the entire position, let alone this project, because you saw some specter. What has changed?”

Draco was quiet for a moment. She watched him, keeping him pinned to his chair with the fierceness of her gaze. “Nothing has changed, exactly,” he said, finally, a deep resolve settling over him. “I was wrong.” Those three words were difficult to say at any time, and even more so now, with Maison’s eyes on him, and the weight of the Number Twelve binder heavy in his lap.

“It’s still a beautiful property,” he insisted, “absolutely soaking with Order of the Phoenix history.” That _had_ to count for something.

“And all the more valuable with an interesting ghost story,” Maison snapped. “Especially to our donors.”

“Even if there was a ghost,” Draco thought out loud, “who’s to say he would bother showing up for Society people?”

“He showed up for _you_ , didn’t he?” Maison asked, a red eyebrow arched.

“But--” Draco started, and snapped his mouth shut. She _hmm_ ’d at him, tapping her nails on the desk again. He always underestimated exactly how sharp she was, how easily she wove her words in that Slytherin way that usually only _he_ was good at.

“Work with me, Malfoy,” she said, waving a hand at the paperwork in front of her. “Give me something.”

“I think the first floor has excellent potential for being a museum space,” he offered, knowing it would not be anywhere near enough.

“Don’t redirect.”

Draco took a deep breath, folding his hands over the file in his lap, his eyes on the report on her desk. It _was_ an excellent report, one of the best he had done so far, with extreme detail and careful research, and comparative descriptions from other works in other houses and museums. He had put a great deal of work into it, and it was an _excellent_ piece of scholarship, if lacking in a bit of haunting. Draco was _very_ good at his job.

And it was not lying to say that there was no phantom. There wasn’t one. Harry Potter was very much alive and in the flesh. Just… hiding, it seemed. Most likely from those like Maison’s cohort who would prefer to parade him out in ghostly makeup than let him be at peace, when he so _clearly_ wanted to be at peace. What would Potter even say to the whole of Grimmauld being Society property anyway? Would he leave when they opened it to the public? Move off to another flat, haunt some abandoned warehouse? Maybe he’d go to the continent. It’s not as though there were very many people here that would even know he had moved at all.

“What if I offer a trade?” he said suddenly, and it was so obvious, he didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before. “One bit of juicy shit for another, and then I can go back to admiring the balustrade.”

“That depends,” she answered, though she leaned forward, the slightest twitch in the corners of her eyes. This was her tell, when she was interested, especially obvious when she was trying to hide it.

“On?” he asked.

“The content on offer. What do you have in mind? What’s better than a little ghostly mystery?”

Draco smiled, then, finally, meeting her gaze with newly sharp eyes. “Same thing that gets them every time. Harry Potter.”

“Harry Potter?”

“His _room_ ,” he said, imagining the little room on the second floor with its Hogwarts miscellany and the closet with the familiar sweaters, and that ridiculously gryffindor-ish bedspread. He could offer _that_ , and protect the man himself. Surely his _security_ was more important, anyway. “He lived at Grimmauld during Auror training, it seems,” he said. “Based on my interviews with close relations, and the state of Room Eleven, on the second floor, I believe he lived there for several years,” he nodded to the notes. “I didn’t indicate this in certain terms in the report, of course.”

“Of course,” she mused, paging through to the relevant section. She read through it quickly, eyes scanning over his thin, neat handwriting. “We’ll need a bit more detail here. About whatever Potter ephemera you’ve found.”

Draco nodded, making a small note in the margin of his docket on Grimmauld, _Ask Potter for “things.” Offer to M. Bell._ He met her gaze, pressing his hand over the note as the ink dried, though she didn’t seem to notice it or care, lost in thought about this change of tack.

“You are very lucky, Draco Malfoy,” she said, closing up the report and turning back to him.

“It’s not luck.” He closed his own notes as well, levelling her an even glance. “I’m merely good at my job.” She nodded, though the corner of her mouth twitched up, eyes bright.

“In any case,” Draco added, “we should speak more about the conservation plans. I’ve outlined my thoughts so far on page nineteen. There’s the most gorgeous set of chairs in the parlor that I think need only a small amount of work, and the balustrade-- Maison, this balustrade is in _excellent_ condition for being, oh, I’d estimate about three centuries old at least.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's rec is for [groolover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/groolover/pseuds/groolover)'s _[Golden Balls](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020/works/27833239)_ , a lovely tale of electric kettles and ridiculous press conferences and Harry running himself ragged (of course) and travel (oh how I miss travel!). Featuring Oliver Wood & Padma Patil!


	19. Ghost Of Christmas Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Ineharnia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ineharnia) and [TeaWithPotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teawithpotter/pseuds/teawithpotter) who gave me some great feedback to improve the first part of this chapter! Thank you both so much <3

_Monday, 17 December 2007 (Later)_

Draco didn’t bother going back to his office when he finished with Maison. Instead, he gathered up his bag and tugged his cloak tighter and Apparated to the alley beside Grimmauld Place. It was cold and windy, with little buffets of rain gusting across his skin. On the sidewalk, the old woman who he had nearly walked straight into on his first visit to Grimmauld was struggling to carry several large bags up to Number Thirteen. It was not quite cold enough to turn the rain gathering on the sidewalk into ice, but it was bitter and nasty out, and perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was a soft bit of holiday spirit had him stepping out of the alley and over to her.

“May I?” he asked, affecting the soft, charming voice he usually reserved for older women at Great War Society galas.

“Aren’t you sweet?” she answered, pushing several large bags into his arms. They were not as heavy as they had looked on her frail arms, and he followed her up to her door. She moved slowly, awkwardly, as if her bones needed greasing. Draco kept pace with her, hovering at her elbow, and feeling uncertain about what exactly to say to this Muggle woman.

“Did you just move ‘round here?” she asked, eyes sliding over to him, “I’ve seen you about a few times, but I didn’t think there was anything up for sale, hmm.” She was too perceptive. He swallowed, absolutely terrified that she’d notice the edge of his wand just inside his sleeve. Could she report him to the Ministry? Would a Muggle do such a thing?

“No, no,” he said quickly, too quickly, and cursed himself mentally, “just… visiting.” He finished, frowning down at his hands. Could she see right through him? He was not usually so easily thrown off.

“Visiting,” she gave him a look that made it very clear she _could_ indeed see right through him. He looked away quickly as she turned the lock on her door, a set of jingling silver keys in her wizened hand. The door swung open, and he was struck with the cozy heat of it. Her home was warm and smelled like garlic on the stove and fresh cookies and something sweet that he couldn’t quite place.

She stepped in ahead of him, brushing her hand over the long, thin metal box on the doorframe and pressing her fingers to her lips as she passed. He followed, looking at the _mezuzah_ with careful eyes. It was very beautifully decorated with a single neat Hebrew letter, probably quite old. It looked as though it had worn many such touches and yet it still gleamed gently in the evening light.

He had studied these enough to know its purpose as a blessing on the doorpost of a Jewish home. He had seen similar stone mezuzot on a project restoring the home of an old Jewish couple near Westcliff-on-Sea, towards the start of his time at the Ministry. He recalled Maison’s careful teachings -- her explanation of the verses of the Torah held within the little box -- as they had passed through the doorway to begin work on the aging downstairs parlor, and the tradition seemed to be the same here too. Perhaps there were more things shared between Muggles and Wizards than he had realized.

The house was beautiful inside, all dark wood paneling and wine-colored drapes. He said so, as he followed her in and set the bags down on the table, gently, carefully.

She smiled at him, then, and he looked away, at his hands, worried he had said too much. “You know, there’s a bright young man about your age who _visits_ this street rather often.” He caught her eyes, too clear, too all-knowing, and flushed lightly.

“He’s very kind. Helps me with my garden sometimes, when my knees get too creaky,” she had turned to the stove, lifting the lid with the smell of turmeric and something else he couldn’t quite place.

“Is he?” Draco echoed, standing awkwardly in the entry to the kitchen. There was wide linoleum tiling here, a soft gray-and-white pattern like tile stretching across between them. She stirred the pot, filling the small room with that delicious fragrance.

“He is,” she nodded, setting down the spoon, “though perhaps, a bit lonely, don’t you think?” Draco nodded before he realized that he ought not have revealed that he knew exactly who she was talking about. She caught him, though, her bright eyes winking with the edge of a smile. “I suppose it’s nice, having another visitor around,” she finished, wiping her hands on a towel.

“I’m not sure--” Draco started, and she waved a hand at him, cutting him off as effectively as a silencing charm.

“It’s no matter, dear,” she said, a bright look in her eye, “I’ve no one to tell but my sons, and they don’t visit me nearly enough.”

She had moved away, down the counter, and was gathering -- were those _biscuits_? -- onto a plate. When she turned back, Draco saw the small ceramic plate covered in a small mountain of icing sugar-covered biscuits. They were small, a little shorter than the length of his finger and smelled of butter and walnuts and sultanas. She offered him the plate and he blinked at her, looking from it to her and back again with wide eyes.

“For you and the man next door,” she said, pressing it into his hands. He took it, staring down at the little rolled biscuits with a bit of wonder. They smelled _divine,_ but he didn’t know what they were. He looked up, the question on his tongue, and she smiled again. “Rugelach,” she answered, “the family recipe, of course.”

“Of course,” he murmured, holding the ceramic carefully. “But I’m not sure when I’ll be able to return the plate.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” she nudged him towards the door, “I’m quite sure this isn’t the last we’ll see of your _visiting_.”

He left her small house feeling dazed and confused, gripping the plate with both hands. Back in the biting cold, he glanced behind to watch her raise a hand to bid him goodbye, mouthing a “Thanks again for the hand, dear,” as he stepped away.

He stumbled off her stoop and over to the space between Number Eleven and Number Thirteen, watching as Number Twelve emerged, filling up his field of vision. He wondered if the old woman felt the shifting of the houses as it came into view, and realized that he hadn’t even asked her name. The shadowy curtains at the front parlor of Number Twelve fell back, and Draco caught in their shifting a figure, too poorly lit to see. Had Potter been watching him?

He raised his wand to the door, letting it sink into the lock and turn, and pushed inside. The house was warm today, warmer than it had been any time he had visited. In the parlor hearth, a large fire roared, filling the room up with the fragrant smell of wood burning and the soft sound of crackling heat. Draco tugged his cloak off with one hand, letting it hang neatly on the coat rack as he balanced the biscuits in the other hand.

He poked his head through the doorway into the parlor, looking over the beautiful wood table, and the brocade chairs, the little lounge couch, and the sideboard, but there was no sign of either Potter or Kreacher and the room was still but for the fire. And the lounge couch looked so inviting. It was wide, with heavy detailing on the wooden edges, and a deep burgundy fabric stretched across that looked like Draco could _sink_ right into it and forget about getting up again.

It took very little convincing for him to walk across the room and run a hand over the warm wooden frame. There was a little detail carving of leaves, wrought into the wood by magic so that they seemed to shiver in an unseen breeze, woodgrain rippling along their twining stems. He traced one finger over the long stem of a lily, curling up and over the arched back of the lounge and blossoming into wide petals right at the crest. The flower seemed to respond to him, opening just so, the deep wood shifting and reforming as he watched.

A soft rustle drew him from his attention, and he walked around the couch to set the small tray of biscuits down on the side table. He felt oddly nervous around Potter, uncertain what to say or how to act around him. They were at a certain kind of stillness around each other, but he wasn’t sure if it was a _draw_ , a stay of some kind on their animosity, or if this was a new era for them, some kind of actual peace. Draco turned from the side table, searching the room for Potter, and saw a small depression in the couch, just centimeters from where he had been staring and lost in thought.

He felt a faint flush rise over the back of his neck (was it embarrassment or something else?) and he stepped to the opposite side of the couch, letting his hand brush over the arm. The depression shifted, almost as though -- could it be? Was Potter making space for him on the couch? And was he going to take up the offer? A thousand thoughts swirled through his mind and he stared for another moment longer, processing.

An instinctive feeling, deep in his chest, took over then, and he moved around the arm of the couch and sat down in one fell swoop before he could begin to doubt himself again. He could feel Potter beside him, warm and present, the soft flutter of breathing and fabric a sound becoming increasingly familiar.

Draco flicked his eyes over to the other side of the couch, holding his breath and his posture straight as he swallowed. Was this what Potter had wanted? And… was this what _he_ wanted? It was rather nice, this couch. It was as soft and enveloping as it had appeared from across the room, the red brocade fabric seemed to generate its own warmth. And it was rather near the fireplace, where the flames seemed to fill the room up with a dancing light and a heat that seemed more physical, more real than a warming charm could ever generate.

Another shifting on the couch beside him had him staring, heart racing all over again. He almost laughed out loud when he saw the little trail of icing sugar. The laughter stopped in his throat when he saw it land _on the brocade_ and his eyes widened, imagining the absolute murder Maison would commit if she ever saw such a travesty. The absolute murder _he_ wanted to commit for Potter’s carelessness. He cast a quick charm, wand pointed at the couch, muttering the word under his breath.

“Mind the couch, Potter,” Draco snapped, before he could think better of it. “It’s quite old, a century at a half at least, though I’d put it in the early nineteenth century if I’m being accurate.”

He thought he heard a snicker beside him, but at least the couch was protected from the falling crumbs. He kept his nose turned up as he reached over for a biscuit himself, being far more careful with the falling sugar than Potter had been. But his resolve dissolved entirely as he bit into the sweet, soft cookie, the flavor of butter and cinnamon and sugar exploding over his tongue. He shut his eyes, savoring the tastes and barely restraining a soft noise of contentment. He had never had a flavor quite like it, with the gentle nuttiness and the pastry different, chewier somehow, flaky and light in his mouth.

He felt the couch beside him shift again, and he swallowed the rest of the biscuit quickly, embarrassed. “Right,” he said sharply, returning to his purpose. He had work to do. Inventories to complete. Rooms to survey. A tapestry to check on.

But the fire blazed warmer, as if someone had flicked a wand at it, as if someone had invited him to stay. He looked over at the other half of the couch. Did Potter _want_ him to stay?

His head whipped around at the sound of music beginning to play from across the room. “O Come All Ye Faithful,” chanted out, tone scratchy as it played through the old phonograph. Draco listened for a moment, and looked back at the Potter-shaped space.

“It’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” he murmured, one hand running over the knuckles of his other, grounding himself in the familiar texture. “I suppose it’s something I ought to say,” Draco continued softly, looking intently at the empty spot, “I have no intention of revealing your presence here. I hope that’s clear.”

Silence responded. He cleared his throat, brushing invisible crumbs from his trousers. “Though I don’t understand your _why_ entirely, I can respect your desire for privacy. I am taking every effort I can to maintain that, though,” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “Though Grimmauld Place has _technically_ transferred to the Society. They could change the wards and come on in at any time, and I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t have the power to stop them,” he mused, frowning at the space.

“I suppose I only mean to say that _I_ will be your ally in this,” he waved a hand approximately where he thought Potter would be, “this disappearance thing. I’m with you, is all I meant.” He turned away, taking another biscuit to fill his hands and his mouth before he went on any further.

For a moment that seemed to stretch unbearably long, there was quiet but for the soft crackling of the fire. Draco brushed away the stray crumbs, careful to avoid the couch. And then there was -- yet again -- a soft rustling. And Draco’s shoes disappeared, leaving him in his soft brown socks, and a soft blanket hovered in from nowhere and settled over the arm of the couch beside Draco and a novel on the table in front of them opened to the first page.

"Wha--" he spluttered. And then stared. First at his feet, brushed with the cool air all of a sudden. Then at the spot by the door where his shoes had reappeared -- he could see through the doorway to the space by the hatstand. And then to the blanket over the arm, soft and a deep green color, knitted (clearly by hand). It looked _so_ warm. And then he sat forward, as if entranced, to pick up the novel before him.

Though his work called to him, there seemed to be a good place for him here, curled on the edge of the couch, warming his feet by the fire, a plate of biscuits and the soft strains of music in the background. Perhaps it was true that Potter wasn’t the only lonely one. Perhaps it was true that a bit of company couldn’t go amiss.

He opened to the first page and began to read out loud. “ _Marley was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that_ ,” he paused. “Potter, if this is a thinly veiled hint, I have quite a few doubts that you’re deceased.”

He schooled his face quickly, keeping the smile that threatened to break across his features, and continued to read. They settled into a quiet rhythm like that, with Draco occasionally breaking to offer a comment, _“Salazar, Potter, I hope you’re not implying that_ I’m _Scrooge.”_ to request a glass of water, and then a pair of wine glasses as the afternoon slipped into evening.

Potter didn’t speak, barely moved for the whole of the novel. But Draco felt rather more resolved in his earlier quandary. It wasn’t a draw, this quiet between them. And yet, it wasn’t entirely new either, no erasure of their past history. Perhaps it was preserved: the good and the bad between them, ready for a new era.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In writing this chapter, I've learned that there are actually a few different types of rugelach - a fluffy, pastry like version and some that are flatter, more like a cookie (the kind I'm more familiar with, and which Harry & Draco eat... because I was eating them while I wrote the chapter!). If you haven't had them, they're lovely! Here are a couple of recipes:  
> https://toriavey.com/toris-kitchen/rugelach/  
> https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/rugelach-recipe-1944318  
> https://www.savingdessert.com/rugelach/
> 
> And if you'd like a literary treat to go with your confectionary, can I humbly recommend [harryromper's __](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryromper/pseuds/harryromper%22)_[Changing with the season](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830935/chapters/68135368)_? I was immensely excited for harryromper's advent fic (as Turn from Stone is one my my all-time favs) and this fic is full of all kinds of wonderful things - your favorite Auror/Cursebreaker duo, Harry being a bit of a mess (but we love him), and some gorgeous pining (obsessing? over Malfoy? Harry would never).


	20. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco nearly throws in the hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my dear reader, I've put you through haunting, a terrible dinner party, some romantic tension... suppose we were overdue for a bit of angst, eh?

_Wednesday, 19 December 2007_

On the Wednesday before Christmas, Draco decided he was losing his mind. He had delivered Maison a small selection of old school papers and a jumper he had nicked from Potter’s room, and she was inordinately pleased. It all made him feel a bit nauseous. And when he returned to the house, he searched for Potter but found no sign of him. The house felt empty and quiet and hollow, as if there had been a large fire lit in all the hearths in the house that had been suddenly put out, that lingering and quickly disappearing sense of heat. Not even Kreacher would respond to him.

Had Potter seen him rifling through his things? Was that what had sent him off? Only, it had seemed alright the night before. Draco had been muttering about needing to please Maison and keep the house clear of others, and his whole plan to keep them on the ground floor, to try to preserve as much of the upstairs for living quarters. How he was _trying_ to maintain Potter’s privacy -- Weasley had drilled that in quite clearly, and Potter’s little Scrooge charade had solidified any doubt he had had. It had seemed alright, because about halfway through his tirade, an old quidditch jersey had turned up next to him, _Number Seven, Potter._

Except the house was empty, now. Dead cold and quiet. And even the street outside seemed devoid of people, no sign of Potter’s kindly neighbor, just the quiet buzz of red and green fairy lights on Number Eleven. And it wasn’t as though he expected Potter to be sitting about waiting for him, but he had gotten rather used to the little flicker of the curtains when he arrived, the soft crackle of the fire, lit for him to heat up whatever rooms he would be working in, the sense of someone _around_ whenever he worked. He had grown _used_ to the companionship.

Potter hadn’t been in the house yesterday. And he was gone today, no sign of him as Draco worked through another odd bedroom on the fourth floor. Draco’s head was spinning, spiraling into places he didn’t much want to think about. The silence of the house felt more lonely than it ever had.

He apparated away from Grimmauld, wanting more than anything to be near people. He landed in a dark alley not far from the River Thames, and took a moment to turn his navy cloak into something more akin to a Muggle peacoat. And then he stepped out into the street, turning his ears to the bustle of people. The whole of London seemed to be out in the streets, buttoned up in winter jackets and hats and mittens and dashing excitedly along the river as the sun set deep in the distance.

Draco watched a couple, two young women, each bundled in hand-knit red scarves and mittens wander arm-in-arm. They stopped and stared awe-struck at the great light-covered tree. He looked at it from a distance too, encouraged by their unfettered joy. It was beautiful, strung up with silvery fairy lights and seeming to glow out in the quickly-darkening evening air. In the distance, the Tower Bridge seemed to sparkle with life too, as the sounds of the crowds of Christmas shoppers wandered across it and up the river.

Draco turned from the couple in their matching scarves, turned from the beautiful bridge and the tree, and started walking in the other direction, shouldering through the throngs of holiday-attired shoppers. He nearly walked straight into a young man wearing a red Santa hat, was elbowed gracelessly by an older woman in a puffy green jacket, and only _just_ missed stepping around a rather excited dog wearing a candy-cane bandana. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so closely surrounded by people on all sides.

Families moved through the throngs, pushing children on strollers, and couples paused under spots of (non-sticking) mistletoe to share a kiss. A little circle of carolers stood on the stairs of an old stone building in the distance, and Draco could hear the strains of _Silent Night_ through the noise of people. He wanted to lose himself among them, pretend he was one of these Muggles without a care in the world.

He paused at the edge of the river where there was a gap in people. The lights from the buildings across the way reflected into the water, doubling, tripling the sense of the fairy lights. A small boat passed along, overflowing with people drinking and toasting to _Oh Christmas Tree_. It was a Wednesday, but it seemed the holiday festivities were well under way.

Across the water, he could see the Tate Magique, lit up with the sparkling display of wizard’s lights, invisible to the Muggles around him. Someday, he would like to work there, in their vast wizarding decorative arts department. He had tried them first, when he had left the Manor the first time, sent in an application for an internship detailing his situation and his interest. It had been returned with a howler expressing in no uncertain terms precisely how unwelcome he was.

And perhaps it had been a bit too forward of him, then. He had grown very much in the year since, not only in his research and work, but in his social standing too. Sure, there were many who still hated him, and who refused to see past the inky scar on his left arm and all the years of mistakes that it stood for. And Draco didn’t begrudge them that.

_“Forgiveness is earned,” Bill had said, when Draco had realized that he’d never asked if Bill had forgiven him. Draco had apologized, sure. And Bill had accepted that apology. But a year into their working relationship, and Draco had come to learn that there was another piece of it too: forgiveness._

_He had apologized more in that year than he had in his entire life. To friends, to his mother, to those who he had once hated. For a while, it had felt like he started nearly every conversation with a new person with an apology, a detailing of his sins. He had thought that the apology, the self-education, that that was it. He was reformed, past tense. Able to move forward._

_"Forgiveness," Bill had said, "Is not something you can control. When and how the people you've hurt are ready to forgive you is entirely their own work, their own thoughts. There's no apology you can craft that will provoke forgiveness without it already being there."_

And Draco had taken it to heart. So if the Tate wasn't ready to welcome his sort, so be it. If the Ministry would hold him back for years, so be it. He would get there, slow and steady, and would find a way to achieve it all.

But if _Potter_ had decided he couldn't forgive him. Well. There wasn't much he could do about that, was there? He had made his amends. Had made it clear that he was willing to fight on his behalf. The rest was up to Potter.

Draco leaned against the small stone wall at the edge of the path. Beyond, he could see the water rippling gently with the soft breeze. Around him, the crowds went on with their shopping, not bothering with the strange young man bent over the stones, contemplating some very un-Christmassy things indeed. Though the crowds were bursting with people and the street around him seemed to press with life, he felt quiet. Detached. Alone among the sea of people and noise.

He tugged his glove from his hand, shoving his fingers back into his pocket before they could feel the cold. He ran his hand over the wooden hilt of his wand, seeking its smooth texture, the tiniest ridges of woodgrain. Small comforts.

He turned, then, away from the river and the Bridge and the heaviness that seemed welded deep into his chest. Along the path, a young man paused, sipping from a hot drink. He looked like Potter, or at least the Potter of his imagination, with scruffy hair and big glasses and a sort of awkward handsomeness about him. Draco felt the slightest pull towards him, across the mass of people between them, as if it really were Potter there.

But then a woman with long dark hair stepped up next to him, tugging him down for a kiss, and taking the second cup from his hands, and Draco looked away quickly. He debated returning to Grimmauld Place, but imagined the cold chill of the house without a fire lit. He considered going home, tucking into his rooms at the Manor, perhaps encouraging one of his mother’s crups to curl up around him.

A soft noise at his right stopped him, and he turned automatically, expecting to see nothing. He had grown so accustomed to Potter’s near-silent presence. Instead, a familiar warm smile greeted him.

“Blaise,” he said, eyes wide.

“Don’t sound _so_ disappointed, darling,” Blaise answered, pressing a steaming paper cup into his hand. Draco took it, disoriented, and was hit by the smell of wassail, fragrant and warm. He took a grateful sip, burning his tongue.

“How did you know where to find me?” he asked, voice without its usual edge. Blaise was wearing an expensive suit under a thick wool coat, his hair recently cut and looking utterly devastating. He was clearly on his way _to_ somewhere, or from it, from the rich scent of his cologne.

“It’s Wednesday,” Blaise said, a single eyebrow arched. He sipped at his own drink, leather-gloved hands over the plain paper.

“Wednesday,” Draco echoed, rolling his hand over a small piece of smooth onyx inside his pocket, “Wednesday, _oh_. Of course. I’m so sorry.”

Blaise stared at him for a long moment, gaze piercingly sharp, as if he could see directly through Draco. If anyone could, it was probably Blaise. “I can count the number of times you’ve missed Wednesday Liquid Lunches on one hand.”

When Draco didn’t immediately answer, he began to list them. “The time that you and Pansy had that row about her not getting promoted and you two didn’t speak for a week. When your Mother had that fall and you were stuck up in St. Mungo’s for hours.”

Draco took a long swallow of the drink, feeling it burn down his throat with the bitter rush of rum. Blaise continued, in a softer, gentler voice, “The day that Harry Potter was declared dead.”

“I get your point,” Draco said with a soft huff, “And I’m sorry. I got caught up. You know how it goes when I have a project like this.”

Blaise _hmm_ ’d, tapping his fingers over the cup. “You _do_ get caught up in projects, but when you do, you never shut up about _this meiji-period vase_ or that Edwardian-era bannister or-- or,” he raised a hand in exasperation.

“Blaise Zabini,” Draco interrupted, smiling slightly, “Have you been _listening_ to me?”

“Absolutely not,” Blaise snapped. “I’m entirely making such things up. Of course.” Though Draco had a hunch that it was not, entirely, made up. “In any case,” Blaise added more forcefully, “You haven’t told us a single thing about Grimmauld Place besides Harry Potter.”

Draco spluttered, sure that he had told them about the _balustrade_ and the gorgeous armchairs in the parlor, and the stained glass and --

“I’ve heard more about an invisible man’s whereabouts than I have ever or will ever care to know,” Blaise added helpfully. “I’m almost beginning to prefer _original Versailles-pattern parquet flooring_ discussions.”

“The Clearwater Manor,” Draco said thoughtfully, remembering those gorgeous wood floors in the ballroom. He had spent a week working with the Conservator to clean and manage the floors to get the parquet back into gleaming shine.

“Exactly my point, old sport,” Blaise exclaimed, raising his cup as if in celebration. Draco rolled his eyes and took another swallow of it, relishing the nutmeg flavors of the wassail.

“How _did_ you find me?” Draco looked around, suddenly aware again of the crowd around them, and how small they were among the masses.

“Bit of a tracking spell,” Blaise shrugged, affecting nonchalance, eyes flicking to Draco’s and away, a hint of humor in them.

“Really?”

“No,” he laughed. “You didn’t come to lunch, didn’t answer my owl to the Manor, nor to Grimmauld, and a little pixie mentioned a certain angsty blond glaring daggers at the carolers 'round about this spot.”

They both laughed at that then, and Draco smiled, finally, really, feeling warm for the first time that evening. “Am I crazy, Blaise?”

“Yes,” he answered, lips curving up. “But not because of Harry Potter.”

“No?” He tried to keep the earnestness from his voice, staring down at the stone sidewalk instead, though his eyes flicked up to Blaise’s and quickly away.

“‘Course not. You’ve been hung up on Potter since we were about this tall,” Blaise raised a hand to just below his hip.

“Hung _up_ ,” Draco scoffed, picking at the paper of his cup.

“Entirely,” Blaise exclaimed.

Draco swallowed, unsure of what to answer. Around them, the crowd seemed to hum, and the lights seemed even brighter, silvery and reflective. In the distance, the carols had switched to something more lively, an incandescent _Carol of the Bells_ dancing among the many-voiced choir. Draco looked over at Blaise, who was staring away, the sparkling lights reflecting in his eyes, dancing over his deep brown skin.

“So what now?” Draco asked, feeling hollowed out.

“I think that’s a question for _you_ ,” Blaise said. “But in the meantime, why don’t you come along with me and get well and truly drunk on absolutely terrible Christmas cocktails.”

He nodded before he could think better of it and they stepped away from the river together, into the crowd. The sound of _Carol of the Bells_ grew louder (and slightly more irritating on the fourth iteration of _Merry, Merry, Merry, Merry_ ). Draco turned to Blaise to ask where they were going.

“Oh, to Charls’ apartment, of course,” Blaise said, eyes bright. “You know. Where I’ve been staying for the last two weeks.”

“No!” Draco gasped. “Blaise Zabini, tied down for Christmas?”

“You’d better believe it,” Blaise grinned, and he really did look quite happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I'd love to recommend [oldenuf2b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldenuf2nb/pseuds/oldenuf2nb)'s _[The Friendly Beasts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020/works/27831580)_ , featuring a darling veterinary Harry and Transfiguration Professor Malfoy and lovely creatures and a mystery to be solved.


	21. Godric's Hollow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elements of MCD (which you probably can tell by now, most definitely isn't MCD)

Friday, December 21, 2007

The little village of Godric’s Hollow was alight with the soft strains of _O Come, O Come Emmanuel_ , echoing over the slowly falling snow. Draco tucked his hands deeper into his pockets, shivering at the chill of snow beginning to fall. It wasn’t enough to stick to the ground yet, just a dusting, like icing sugar shaken across the whole of the village, across the shoulders of his thick wool coat. It was not late in the day, but the sun was nearly set, casting the whole of the town in a golden shadow.

A few people milled about, in bustling family groups, covered in thick mittens and woolen hats and pink cheeks and laughter. Draco spied a pair walking along, laden with packages and Christmas wrapping. It was a stark contrast to the noise and bustle of the Thames. Godric’s Hollow was quiet, quaint, and utterly content to go about their lives. The strains of music seemed to settle on all the people about, even settling Draco’s anxious hands.

On the corner of the main road, a young man was beginning to bring small baskets of red and white flowers inside. He seemed to be struggling, even with a charm to keep the plants in the air, as he reached the door and couldn’t seem to balance it all. Once again, Draco was compelled to help, and wandered toward the man.

In another time, a year ago, Draco might have found him attractive. He had that roguish look to him, with thick, curly hair and a slightly scruffy beard. The man smiled when he walked over, a wide and excited smile that reached his eyes and covered his whole face. As if the man had never had a cause to avoid smiling. As if he could just ooze joy from every pore. Up close, Draco noticed the warm green pullover, torn in a few places as if snagged on rose thorns, and with a small spray of dusty brown mud at the hem. But it was tight, and flattering, and Draco was distracted, looking over the small pots of plants yet to go inside.

“Do ye’ mind grabbing that one, mate?” the man said with a friendly tone, nodding to the large bucket of poinsettias by Draco’s feet. Draco waved his wand, setting it to float behind him, and picked up a second bucket as well, minding it carefully to avoid a splash of water.

“Ta,” the man added when they had made it inside. The florist’s shop was warm, a slight fog to the windows. Every surface was covered in greenery and Christmas flowers. The smell of evergreen was heady and overwhelming, and took Draco immediately back to the scent of the parlor at Grimmauld Place right after Kreacher had installed the decorations. It felt like winter, and yet the shop was so warm, the sound of Celestina’s Christmas album playing from the wireless on the counter.

He set the bucket of poinsettias on the counter, turning towards the man. He had already moved on, tending to some large wreaths of evergreen and holly by the windows at the front, pruning away bits of brown here and there. The man was humming along to _Accio Christmas_ , swaying his hips as he went. As Draco watched, he glanced over his shoulder, those bright eyes and warm smile falling on Draco.

“What can we be getting for ye?” the man asked, not even bothering to look as he arranged evergreen strands into a wreath. Draco watched his hands move like magic, though he seemed to be doing it himself, wand tucked away somewhere in his massive green apron.

“I’m not certain,” Draco said, suddenly aware of the truth of the words. “No, I am,” he corrected, pulling his hand from the poinsettias. “I’ll need a bouquet. Modest, but appropriate.”

The man turned to face him, leaning against the counter. “What’ll you say for a price?” he asked, drumming those hands on the counter.

“Say five, six galleons,” Draco answered. “Something in that range would be excellent.”

“Right,” he nodded, giving Draco a considering look. “Christmassy, and all that? ‘s it for your girlfriend?”

Draco snorted, and ducked his head with a cough to hide it. “No,” he shook his head, looking the man straight in the eye, “It’s for a-- someone. I don’t want him to be alone on Christmas.”

The man opened his mouth and shut it, then pushed off from the counter and began to rummage through some of the buckets. He pulled a few sprigs of bright greenery, and glanced over his shoulder again, gnawing on his lower lip. “Got any flower preferences?”

“Lilies, for his mum, I suppose,” Draco mused, “What about something red?”

“Roses, maybe,” the man said, turning to a glass case in the corner. Cooling charms rolled off of it as he pulled the door open to show Draco the bucket. The roses were _just_ bloomed, wide-lipped and absolutely gorgeous. “But that’s a bit romantic for a friend, innit?”

“He’s not a friend,” Draco answered quickly.

“Oh,” he looked at the roses, then at Draco, eyes growing wider. _“Oh_ ,” he nodded several times, plucking a series of rose stems from the bucket. Draco thought he should probably correct him, that Potter _was_ some sort of friend, perhaps? A companion? A confidante? Something had shifted between them, in this weeks of shared space. But that _something_ could not be so easily articulated to a perfect stranger, friendly as he was.

The florist gathered a few other flowers: some sprigs of red berries, a few in red and white, and a handful of other greens (ferns, Draco noted, thinking pensively about all the books on flower meanings he’d read, of some sense of loyalty and hope for the future, of new beginnings).

He passed over the shining galleons as the florist wrapped it up, adding a neat little red bow, hands working too fast, too confidently for Draco to follow, especially in such a distracted state. He took the flowers gratefully though, nodding to the man.

“Ta again for the help, mate,” he said, already moving back across the shop to the wreath.

“Happy Christmas,” Draco breathed as he pushed through the door and into the slowly gathering snow.

The bouquet was certainly something to behold, all beautiful balance of colors and greenery, and hefty for the price he had paid. Draco admired the half-dozen red roses, jewels set against the long white petals of the lilies. But he had more important things to do than to lose himself in the meanings and double-meanings of ferns.

The walk through the village of Godric’s Hollow was relatively quiet, with only a few people passing still. Draco could hear the soft strains of a winter hymnal carrying from the chapel down the road. The street was lined with lamps, glowing faintly in the falling dusk, each adorned with greenery and big red ribbons. The soft noises of people gathered at home faded as he reached the furthest edge of the village.

Before him, the remains of Potter’s Cottage lay snow-covered and crumbled, an awful sight to behold. The timbers had fallen inwards, weakened by the curse blasts, and much of the second floor had collapsed entirely. The small front door was still intact, but it seemed to barely be holding up the front half of the house. And there was no magic to be felt here. He could feel the silence as audibly as if it had been shouting at him. The house’s very roots were dead, cut off, cursed away.

He wondered at it for a moment. No one had ever worked on a house in such a state of magical disrepair. Would it even be possible to repair such damage? Would there be enough magic left in the wood, in the frame of the house, to bring it back to life? He thought, maybe, he might just be the kind of person to take on such a crazy job. And he would be the kind of person to do it _well_. In his mind’s eye, Potter’s Cottage rebuilt itself, growing from the ground up, like a tapestry restored, until it was standing as proudly on its ancient brick foundation as it ever had. It would be glorious.

A little red bird landed on the broken eaves, bright wings fluttering in the gentle breeze. He looked out of place, so handsome and pristine standing on the broken shell of the house that once was. Draco watched as it flitted onward, off the eaves and down over the side of the house. He watched it, intrigued, and stepped along the fence, absently running a hand over the edge of the overgrown hedges.

He kept on, though, hand trailing over the scraggly wooden gate, where it had splintered nearly down the middle, hanging off like a loose tooth. He couldn’t help himself. He passed a small charm over it, subtle, careful, letting the wood reform into a gate, the crack still evident and far from the work of a proper conservator, but oh, the house already looked more alive.

The bird continued on, and so did Draco. The soft strains of hymn from the church grew infinitesimally louder. Draco and the bird came to a stop at the wide iron fence adjacent to the Potter property, and the little cardinal landed on the sign labelled, “St. Jerome’s Graveyard.” This is what Draco had come here for, not to fantasize about a ridiculously impossible project, or to distract himself with birds and florists and the like.

Draco pushed inside the graveyard, eyeing the rows of misaligned stones. But he already knew which one he was looking for. It was the most recently added of the small plot, though the ground was far from freshly turned. It had been nearly five years since this space was made.

The small stone at the head was labelled in ridiculously formal text (Potter would _never_ approve of that, were he actually deceased). _Here Lies Harry James Potter, Our Hero. 1980-2002._ Draco could just imagine Potter laughing at it, at the ridiculous font, and the “Our Hero” and the useless black marble. It was a handsome stone, probably expensive and well worth it. It was just most certainly _not_ the stone of one Harry James Potter.

But Draco knelt anyway. He brushed the gathered snow away from the stone with his hand, leaving the cool stone exposed to the air. And he placed the little bouquet right there, against the stone, red and white and green against the black marble and the dusting of snow across the ground.

And that was it. It was all rather more anticlimactic than what he had imagined. Placing the flowers on the stone didn’t bring any newfound clarity to his feelings around Potter, didn’t dissuade the doubts still swirling in his mind. They were just flowers and an empty grave, and a meaningless, ridiculous stone. He wanted to be angry. At the stone, at Potter, at the world.

* * *

In another time, in another year, Draco would have just gone home. Made a cuppa, or had a drink, found a good book and tucked up on the chaise lounge by the fire. But today, the idea of going to the Manor with its achingly long hallways and the utter _emptiness_ of it seemed impossibly lonely.

And so he found himself back on the doorstep at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, swaying in place and afraid that this house, too, would be utterly empty. He pushed his wand at the door lock, letting it turn and shift and engage. The door swung open. And the house was quiet again. Quiet, but not cold. None of the cool edges and heavy silence of the Manor. The walls seemed to thrum with life, with energy. Even with no sign of Potter, the house was _alive_ and well, and growing more hale every day.

He gazed around the entrance hall, at the tile floor that seemed more straight, at the troll’s leg umbrella stand that seemed somehow less ugly, at the festooned bannister stretching up to the house’s hidden depths. And the magic in it, and the wonder in it, and the clear vitality of it all made the house seem like it was breathing. Like he was somehow less alone here.

Draco walked over to the bannister (that glorious mahogany bannister) and ran a hand over it, relishing in the feeling of warmth beneath his fingertips, as if the wood itself were the lifeblood of the house, coursing through it. He paused at the newel post that had been added more recently and crouched down to look at it again. He had noticed it, and taken note, but hadn’t spent nearly enough time with it to realize that it too, felt warm beneath his fingertips, neatly integrated with the magic coursing through the rest of the bannister. Though it was slightly different in shape and stain color, it was a perfect magical fit.

The thought settled on Draco all at once. The frames. The chair legs. The bannister’s repair. He half-ran up the stairs, up two flights, and the third, breath tight in his throat. He stood at the base of the attic ladder, peering up, before he reached out and stepped onto the first rung.

It all made so much sense. Who else would be around this place? Caring for it, repairing it, keeping it in such beautiful condition for all these years. Draco stood at the top of the attic ladder, staring at the woodworker’s bench. There was new sawdust, and the chair rail that had been in progress weeks ago was gone, replaced with what looked to be a new frame, complete with neatly carved wooden molding.

Draco walked over to the bench, running his hand over the smooth surface of the frame pieces, over the intricate details of the carved wood at the corners, appropriate for a mid-seventeenth century painting. The tooling was so delicate, so specific, but there were no books around, no examples of other frames, just a haphazard pile of chisels and sanding tools.

A soft sound behind him had him spinning, hands on the counter behind him. He stared at the place where the ladder entered the attic, where a soft susurrus of dust seemed to shift.

“You’re back,” he said softly, a faint flush warming his cheeks.

A soft patter of footsteps over the creaking wooden floor of the attic brought the sense of a person closer to him. Draco could feel Potter’s warmth, close now.

“This work is exquisite,” Draco added, feeling woefully inadequate to describe it for possibly the first time in his career. “And believe me, I _know_ exquisite.”

No answer, but Draco carried on. “You do this all by hand? Not by magic?” The stack of chisels clattered slightly as they shifted on the bench, moved by an unseen hand.

“Exquisite,” Draco breathed again. “You… seem to work well with your hands. I’m quite impressed. I’ve spent quite a long time around the real thing, and reproductions are never quite the same, but,” he glanced back at the frame, taken in by the gorgeous rendering of a smattering of flowers at the corner, “But this is something special. I can feel the magic in it, unlike anything else,” he trailed off.

“This house is privileged to have you as its caretaker,” he finished, finally, in the silence that seemed to stretch on between them. He felt a soft brush against his shoulder, as if Potter were standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder, just slightly shorter than him. He could feel Potter’s warmth against him from the top of his shoulder down to the tip of his finger, in all the places where they were close enough to touch. “It’s good to have you back,” he added, almost as an afterthought. He had forgotten Potter had been gone at all, so _right_ had his return felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I'll recommend [Shadowmun]()'s _[Advent Calendar](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020/works/28074591)_ , a fascinating story told in a series of fantasies granted by potions. I was enticed from one of the first lines: _"For each day until Christmas, I gift you a fantasy. And maybe, then you will know who I am. And maybe, you’ll gift me back."_ Enjoy ;)


	22. The Glass Stag

Saturday, 22 December 2007

Already burdened with several Christmas packages, Draco stepped apprehensively into Flourish and Blotts. He would get just a small gift for Bill, and for Maison, as they usually did, a token acknowledgement of their work together. Last year, Bill had offered him a pair of dragonscale gloves, purchased from his brother’s Reserve in Romania. And the year before that, he had given him a new wand holster after he had complained about his for two weeks straight on the van Worth case. And the year before _that_ , Bill had given him a box of flavored chocolates, each more decadent than the last.

In short, Bill Weasley was a good gift-giver (one of his many _flattering_ qualities). Maison gave more the average workplace gifts. But in either case, Draco was well and truly out of time to find something appropriate and send it off to them. He wasn’t sure where the time had gone, lost as he had been in the walls of Grimmauld Place, but these were the last two he needed to find. Blaise was already off on his gift (a brief vacation somewhere warm) and Pansy would receive hers later today (season tickets to the The Royal Magical Ballet and a _very_ expensive bottle of wine).

As he pushed the door to Flourish and Blotts’ aside, he was struck with the smell of paper and ink, fresh and clean. It wouldn’t do to get Bill something so lavish as that he awarded on his friends. Draco had half a mind to give him a charmed button-up shirt so that he would stop leaving it done halfway down his chest.

But Flourish and Blotts offered a few other options, and he let himself wander through the shelves, eyes catching on gorgeous journals and decorative quills (with almost no practical value besides being nice to look at). He wandered over to the heavy wooden shelves in the back of the shop, laden with books of all sorts, textbooks and novels and guides of all sorts. He trailed past some of them, pausing at the section on _Blood Purism_ to review the small selection of titles.

 _How to be an Anti-Purist_ was there, one of the first he had read, and _Blood Supremacy and Me_ , and a few others he recognized. There was a new memoir, not non-fiction, but he picked it up anyway, tucking it under his arm. He had started with the books, after he left the low-security prison for his house arrest. He had read one, then another and another, devouring the new ideas like they could change everything.

But of course, it couldn’t stop with the reading. He realized _that_ the first time his caseworker had offered him a copy of _The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe_ and he’d had a sneer about _Muggle Literature_ halfway out of his mouth before he even thought twice. No, he couldn’t stop, not ever, not if he wanted to do it right. And he did, so dearly, want to do it right, to learn to be better, and do it in his own way. He didn’t want to fight like a Malfoy, or run like a Black. Instead, he would learn and improve like, well, like a Draco. _Toujours nouveau. Scientia_ _vincit semper._ His own path.

Taking up work at the Ministry, that had been another step. With each house he repaired, he worked to build himself anew. To learn other traditions as deeply and intimately as his own. To learn from Bill and Maison - forgiveness, acceptance. To learn that passion for his work could be a beautiful thing, and shared widely, freely.

Across the shop, there was a small display of self-writing notebooks. Draco crossed to look at them, thinking of the cursebreaker, the new memoir tight under his arm. Bill _never_ took notes, a fact which drove Draco completely mad on their shared projects. While Draco would be detailing every inch of cursed object, Bill would _hmm_ and chatter on out loud as he noticed things. And when Draco asked how he planned to remember it all, Bill would shrug those broad shoulders good naturedly and say he had it all up in his head. And he did. Usually.

There was a time, working on the Clearwater case, that Bill had forgotten to write down some element of the curse and it had snapped back, too weak to do any damage, but still dangerous nonetheless. And another time, at the van Worth estate, he had to fire-call Draco to correct some of the details in his Ministry report. Draco had tried to convince him after that. Tried to extoll the virtues of writing good notes, of a nice notebook. But Bill never listened, losing quills faster than Draco could replace them.

But this, perhaps. He picked up one of the notebooks, turning the soft leather over in his hands. It was supple, neat, a soft reddish-brown that reminded Draco of Bill. It would take notes _for_ him, no quill needed, right along as he spoke. Draco could imagine them working together; he fantasized for a moment about returning to Godric’s Hollow, and working to pull the remains of Voldemort’s curse from the bones of the house together, Bill’s notebook floating along and taking notes. It was a silly thought, but Bill would appreciate it anyway.

And Draco had another gift to buy, so he ought not linger on too long. He took the journal, and the memoir, and snagged another empty journal and nice quill set on the way, as he really couldn’t resist. They were the perfect size and a good color, and he could give it to his mother as an additional gift. She shared his love for beautiful writing instruments.

At the counter, Draco passed over the galleons, distracted by the sound of the radio in the corner playing some of Electric Wand’s truly awful Christmas album. But he didn’t crinkle his nose, only thanked the teenage shopkeeper with her ridiculous red hat and dashed off into the street, another bag in tow.

The street was busy with shoppers and vendors and the smells of roasting nuts and sweet cocoa and evergreen fir, with red bunting all about the shops and small groups of carolers wandering about. Draco found himself walking more quickly, pushing through the crowds. It was a different experience than it had been years ago, right after the final end of his house arrest. His face had been splashed across the papers, right along with a few others with similar sentences.

It had been a sneering, awful image, taken right from his arrival at Erendor, the low-security prison, when he still bore all the sharp edges and sneering hate that he had ended the war still carrying. Now, though, he had mostly faded into oblivion, at least to the average people on the street. Had had his ten minutes in the spotlight and was perfectly happy to be left alone.

He had to be careful, though, still. To keep his sleeves long, and pay with galleons and never a bank note to avoid his name coming up during a transaction. It was a just penance, he thought.

All of these thoughts weighed heavily on his mind as he turned the corner past one of his favorite little shops. It was easy to miss, just a little doorway recessed into the storefront, mostly undecorated. But inside? Draco pushed the red door open with the soft chime of a bell. It was anything but unassuming.

Shelves as high as one could see were piled with antiques and curiosities of every shape, size, color and magical capabilities. Rare books were locked in a large case across the room, and thick rugs covered every inch of the floor, overlapping each other. There was the smell of an antiques shop, of the glue of old books and the oxidation of brass and silver, and the smells of old houses clinging to the paint on portrait canvases. There was no music (there never was), only the soft tinkling of little bells on little lamps and so many different items.

It would take a lifetime to get to know every item in this shop. And Draco would give a lifetime to do just that, to get lost among the morass of beautiful old things, each with a story to be told. The shop keeper was about, surely, probably in her slinking black cat form, probably watching him as she always did. It was nice, though. She was as quiet as he was, and as easily lost among the beautiful silver chalices and ancient stained glass lampshades, and mobiles and-- and--

Draco’s entire train of thought was lost when he saw it, perched on a shelf among an unremarkable stack of books. His whole focus shifted as he looked at it. Shining and silver and glass and _gorgeous_ , the stag stood proudly out from the shelf, watching him. He stepped closer, through the shelves of odd dolls and glass vases, eyes only for the stag. It turned its silvery head towards him, tilting just slightly as if to assess him.

Draco was breathless as he raised a finger to press against its little glass muzzle, and it nosed against him as if sniffing his hand, pressing into its palm. Its liveliness was an odd contrast to the cool texture of the glass, too hard to ever be flesh. The stag was about thirty centimeters high at the tips of its delicate antlers, and stood on a stand of freshly fallen snow, glitteringly white in the glass. It was _exquisite_.

And it evoked a time that he would rather have forgotten. The last time that Draco had seen Harry Potter’s Patronus was nearly ten years ago. He could still remember the Great Hall, those high ceilings, the candles floating far above. Could remember sitting down for his O.W.L.’s exam, that year when everything had begun to change.

He was less alone, then. Fifth year. He still had some hope. He still could pretend it was just about being in school and messing around. Sitting down for his O.W.L.’s, he remembered worrying about getting a good enough grade. _Beating Granger_ , of course. He had spent weeks revising and practicing in the back corner of the library, hiding from Goyle and Pansy, who would rather have had him sneaking alcohol with them from the kitchens.

And he had been halfway through his own exam when Potter had walked in, all scruffy haired and distracting, and the exam, which had been going well so far, took a disastrous turn for the worse. Somewhere between re-doing his levitation spell and beginning the _Reductor_ , he had found himself again, and finished the exam with some sense of pride.

Marchbanks had smiled at him, when he finished, a little twinkle in her eye that gave him hope he had passed successfully. But his good mood had been quickly staunched when that great stag Patronus had erupted from the table two down from him, cantering around the room and pulling every single student and examiner’s attention away to watch it in all of its glory. At the time, he had scowled and stormed out, shoving his way out the door. He had spent weeks afterwards grumbling about how unfair it was that Potter had gotten an extra spell.

But in reality? He had spent hours in his dorm bed, lying on his back, imagining that stag’s graceful silvery pace around the room. It had been glorious, then. Tall and regal, all muscle and sinew racing along the body of it, long antlers stretching out towards the ceiling. It was the perfect protector.

Draco had spent hours more than a few nights reading the various Potter biographies (including _The First Last Stand: A Secret History of the Potter Family_ , an admittedly yellow text with very little actual biographical information). He would never admit that, of course, but the biographies were important to building out a complete story of the Order, and as most of his projects ended up in Order houses, well, it only made sense to be appropriately educated, didn’t it?

There was a picture in _Perfect Potter_ , the Rita Skeeter biography, of Potter standing beside a great stag Patronus, wand raised. There was no clear explanation of how she had gotten the photo, with Harry all scraggled hair and wide, fear-blown eyes, but the Patronus itself was gorgeous, almost taller than Harry, and glowing from the page. Skeeter had theorized (well, she claimed, without real evidence, in Draco’s opinion) that the stag was inspired by Potter’s deep masculinity, that he was a _buck_ or some other faff.

Draco was building a new theory, though. If Remus Lupin was a werewolf, and Sirius Black was an illegal Animagus. Well, the rest followed quite logically, didn’t it? Each of the texts on the early Order of the Phoenix lauded the little group of Hogwarts friends at the center James and Lily’s world, the _Chosen One_. A wolf, a dog, and… Could it be? It was pure conjecture of course, and Draco doubted Potter would ever admit it, but it seemed possible, at very least.

When Skeeter’s book came out, there was a sudden smattering of stag-themed items. Jewelry, statuettes, posters, all of it, and each more ugly and cheap than the last. But this? This looked to be handmade, the shape of the glass imperfect and all the more beautiful for it. Someone had spent hours pouring their skill into it, honing the glass into absolute glorious perfection. It was stunning, and understated, and Draco could imagine it sitting so perfectly on the mantle in the parlor at Grimmauld.

He picked it up without considering the cost for even a moment and brought it to the front counter to pay. The slinky black cat surfaced from somewhere in the back, turning as she walked into a short, thin woman with silky black hair down to her waist. She didn’t smile, looking over the stag and assessing Draco’s face as she always did whenever he came in here.

“For someone special,” she purred, as she pressed the buttons on her ancient cash register. Draco passed over the requisite massive pile of galleons, nearly emptying his wallet to do so.

“I suppose,” Draco mused, pulling his hand away from its gentle caress over the base of it so that she could wrap it up, carefully pressing bubble wrap and newspaper around it.

He watched it disappear into the box with a forlorn expression, terribly sad to see it hidden away.

“He’ll love it, I’m sure,” she added, voice husky, like she had been drinking something thick before she began to speak, “It’s a thoughtful gesture.”

Draco started, pulling away from the counter, “How did you-- Who do you--?” he cut himself off, pressing a hand over his throat anxiously.

“At peace, dear one,” she hummed at him, brushing fingers over the back of his hand where it was clenched at the edge of the counter. “You’re nearly shouting your thoughts about him.”

“I don’t--” he began again, swallowing hard.

“I know,” she interrupted again, and pulled away to tie up the last of the package. She passed it over to him, wrapped up in shining gold paper and a red ribbon, subtle but neat. He hadn’t even seen her pull it out from the counters. “Perhaps there’s a bit of Christmas magic in the air.”

She turned, sliding back into the long black cat form, and disappeared back to the shadowy part of the shop where she had come from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a pause from my 25 days recs because I just want to give a little shout-out to my favorite antiques shop in a fic, that of Fand's, in [TackyTiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/pseuds/tackytiger)'s [Modern Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24785899/). Reading about Draco & Harry in this beautiful shop, with the incredible Fand, looking at special plates and dragon mobiles, and so many beautiful things helped remind me how much I love fic & fandom and creativity in this awful, awful year. If you haven't had a chance to enjoy Modern Love, I'll send you off there with love.


	23. The Fire Is So Delightful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotional connection in more than one kind of way.

Saturday, 22 December 2007 (Later)

Draco set his final inventory down on the kitchen table, the rest of his notes splayed out around in various states of completion. The thin navy binder which had held his original paperwork, was now near bursting with scrawled parchment and carefully annotated sketches of a few of the more precious items in the house. From here, he would work with Maison and a team of conservators to plan for the house’s repair. He might consult, if they wanted, as it transitioned to the Great War Society’s hold, to prepare to open to the public.

The air in the house felt bittersweet, as if it knew such change was coming. As if it knew that Draco would leave soon, leave and possibly not return. The kitchen, which usually seemed to ooze with fragrant onions and garlic and rosemary as if it were woven into the very wood of the kitchen itself, seemed stale, cold.

A soft breeze at the entry to the kitchen stirred his papers, shifting a few out of order, and he moved to fix them without looking, eyes reserved for the figure he knew was coming invisibly into the room. He had been thinking about Potter a great deal as he had composed his notes, not the man in person, but all the elements of him in the house. The repairs he had completed, his hands weaving wood back into the broken parts of the house. The way the whole house seemed warmer, more at peace when Potter was around.

On top of the nearest pile of notes was his original report about the happenings in the house when he had first arrived. Details about an “apparition” in the bathroom mirror, about the scalding doorknobs and dust swells, all of it. Too much of it. These would not go in his final report if Draco had any say in it.

Draco didn’t need to look up to know that Potter had come into the room. He was well used to the quiet sound of unheard footsteps and subtly creaking doors by now. Potter seemed to want him to know his presence, as he tugged the chair across the table out. Draco assumed he was sitting in it, but he kept looking resolutely down at his notes, scribbling in the margins of one page and drawing a line through his annotation on another.

“You know, I think I might be starting to understand it,” Draco mused as he read over his notes on the clawfoot tub _(mid eighteenth-century? claw & ball foot, likely og. in kitchen, when moved upstairs? → 1900s w/ other plumbing)_. He set down the parchment with his haphazard sketch of the metal foot on the tub, looking over at the empty seat.

“The locking yourself up here bit, I mean,” he picked up another parchment, running his thumb over the rough edge of one of the pages. There was a thick blot of ink in the corner, and he whispered a small erasing charm at it.

A long pause stretched as he read over this page too, a list of all the items he had discovered in the kitchen’s pantry, ranging from an exciting (and massive) silver dinner service to a pair of rather unexciting kitschy mugs. When he looked up, there was another slight fluttering of his papers, not enough to fully disturb them, but enough to be on purpose, as if the man in the empty chair wanted him to know that he was still there.

“Hmm,” Draco murmured, and set the paper down again. He gave the empty seat a considering look, and then slid into the chair across the table from it. He made a small clearing in the stack of notes, and summoned a mug. Heart in his throat, Draco turned from the table, over to the stove, and started a pot of water to boil, making it the muggle way to settle his mind. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the porcelain as the water boiled.

He turned back as the steam began to rise. “Things I know about you." He raised a hand, ticking them off. "Five years ago, you staged your own disappearance.” He frowned, and added, “Albeit not very _well_ , I’ll argue.” 

The empty chair said nothing, and Draco couldn’t be entirely certain that he was even still in the room. “As far as I can tell, the only people who know for sure that you’re alive are Weasley and Granger.” At least, that _seemed_ clear. If the rest of the Weasley clan knew, then surely Bill would not have let him feel so crazy on that first day back at the house. He hoped that he and Bill had a good enough relationship for that.

“And Kreacher,” he added, with a sudden thought. “Who, I can only assume, keeps you from starving and all that, as I can’t imagine how you’re keeping fed otherwise. Auror-ing surely doesn’t lend itself well to culinary skill.”

Behind him, the water had begun to boil fast enough that he flicked his wand to turn off the heat. He poured himself a cup, adding a bag from the little PG Tips box. When he glanced back at the table, there was a second mug waiting.

“You could have just _asked_ ,” he groused, adding water and a teabag to the red mug. He passed it across the table, setting it hot and steaming in front of the empty chair. “You know, a ‘please’ wouldn’t go amiss,” he said grumpily, but he was smiling, glad for the clear demonstration of Potter’s presence. He felt warmer, somehow, with him here.

“In any case,” he went on, “You have some sort of invisibility device -- I’d theorize it’s a cloak, but _possibly_ a dress or a tunic of some sort. My first thought might have been a particularly good Disillusionment, but I’ve felt it. I could swear it’s like some sort of fae-woven silk.”

He replayed the careful touch of the fabric beneath his fingers -- sitting nearby on the couch, in the room upstairs, swishing around nearby over the floorboards. It was so soft, and so unlike anything he had ever felt before, not a heavy upholstery fabric, or a brocade, or even the sheer and tumbling silks of expensive curtains.

“So if all of that is true,” he mused, and of course it was true. Pulling disparate facts together to define a historical reality was his job description. “And you remain obstinately unwilling for me to see you in any way, shape or form,” he paused to sip his tea. “Well, then there are a few options, aren’t there?”

“This is not a,” he waved a hand, “Me-specific disappearance, nor is your invisibility limited to me, you hid from Bill as well. So we can assume that it’s not really about me, that despite our history, you don’t have it out for me any more so than anyone else.”

He narrowed his eyes at the empty chair for a brief second, “Though I’ll continue to hold my burned and frozen hand against you. That was rotten, Potter.”

Draco settled down into the chair again, pushing it back from the table so he could cross one leg over the other, brown dress shoe tapping against the chair rail. “What I’ve seen so far from the Ministry about you,” he trailed off, considering his words carefully. Draco pressed his hands to the mug, letting the heat seep through the ceramic and against his palms until they were nearly too hot and he pulled them away.

“They’d be willing to put your ghost to work, if you’d let them,” he sighed, no way to soften the blow. “No rest even after you had given your _life_ for this Ministry.” He let the silence hang between them for another moment as he looked at the deep amber color of his tea. “I can understand wanting to run from that pressure, I suppose.”

“I don’t agree with it, mind,” he added quietly, carefully, worrying that it would come off as judgmental. “But I do know a good bit about how punishing they can be, I’ve seen it. Felt it. The other way, mind, and it doesn’t much bother me.” It did very much bother him. That he could work harder than anyone else and still fall two steps behind. That for every step he took forward against the wind, Potter would have a chartered car jetting him ahead if that was what he wanted.

“It’s so _visible_ ,” he said, thinking of the Ministry canteen, the Great War Society events. “Everyone watching and wanting a piece of you, when really all they want is to hear themselves talk. I can understand wanting to disappear from that,” his voice was quiet now, serious and heavy with the weight of admitting how exhausted he was at trying so hard.

He took another sip of his tea, eyes downcast. “I suppose that leaves only one question to sort out.” He flicked his eyes up at the empty seat, and back at the cup, surely too quickly to be noticed. “Why can I still not see you? Is it some,” he sighed, shrugging, “You know. Hogwarts feelings, still around?” He could still see Potter’s angry face in so many different corridors, all hard lines and vicious edges.

He laughed a little, then, just under his breath. “Is it plausible deniability? That I can walk out of here and be able to say I’ve never seen Harry Potter here?”

He went on, “Or maybe it’s just that you’ve become so used to hiding that the idea of showing yourself is,” he shook his head, frowning down at the tea mug, “Some particular vulnerability. But I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he added quickly, the corner of his mouth quirking just so.

“Or perhaps I’m entirely mad,” Draco finished, voice quiet but no longer from the tension.

The heavy silence of the room seemed to almost mock him, and he stood up, overwhelmed by the feeling. He pushed his chair away, taking the tea with him, suddenly needing to be anywhere but in this room. Potter’s duality: present and absent all at once was exhausting and maddening. He was sure it was him, and that he was here, and yet with so little visible evidence, no arms to run his hands over, no skin to measure its warmth against his own, no green eyes to wink, he felt still uncertain.

But how could he expect Potter to trust him anyway? He still bore the mark, not only that ink on his forearm, but of the years of wrongdoing. There was no amount of charity work and do-goodery that would ever fully take it back, he had learned that over and over, from Bill and so many others who had offered him patience and kindness and learning.

Draco stormed into the parlor to sit down by the fire, softly crackling. Kreacher must have put another log on recently, as it was blazing and toasty, and brought rapid heat to his shoulders where he sat, back pressed close to the wrought iron grill. He held the mug in both hands, the warmed texture of the ceramic soft and distracting and peaceful.

Somewhere between convincing himself that he had said too much and convincing himself he had said too little, the soft strains of music began to play. Draco looked up from the mug to catch sight of the record player across the room, freshly sparked with a spell. So Potter had followed him in here.

“Curious, Potter?” he asked, voice more sharp than he had meant it. He set the mug down on the stone of the hearth and ran his hands through his softly tousled hair, messing it up from its usually so-perfect coif.

“I--” he began to apologize, but a hand, _clearly, certainly, definitely_ a hand on his shoulder stopped the breath in his throat. He looked at his shoulder but still saw nothing, and swallowed hard, at once terrified and thrilled. Potter’s hand was warm, rough, and slightly muted, still, muffled by the texture of the fabric that felt so odd through his thin cashmere sweater.

He could hear the sound of _Let It Snow_ beginning to play from the record across the room. He could feel the heat of the fire behind him, and the cool stone underneath him. This room hosted the pair of brocade chairs and the wide couch and the coffee table and the record player and the decorative mantle over the fireplace. He knew it well, had documented it and created extensive notes about each element in the room.

And yet. And yet. The room felt so far away, as if the world’s focus had narrowed to the feeling of that hand on his shoulder, warm and firm. Draco could replay the feeling of Potter’s lips ghosting against his cheek, the soft feel of him on the couch as they read _A Christmas Carol_ , of all the tiny brushes that felt almost deniable. But this? This was firm. As if Potter were offering him what he could offer right now. Not sight, but touch.

He took a long, shaky breath, and stood up. The hand moved with him, shifting to rest against his bicep. It felt warm, and firm, and real, even if Draco couldn’t see the incongruous owner of said hand.

And then Potter stepped even closer. There wasn’t a clear way to see exactly what he was doing, but Draco could hear the soft rustle of fabric as he moved closer. And then Potter’s other arm was on his other bicep, and any sense of being able to think clearly went entirely out the window. All at once, his interest, his curiosity, his attraction to Potter slammed home, and he stepped forward, into the embrace without even thinking.

Potter’s arms slipped more firmly around him, one hand on his waist, the other slipping to take his left hand. They started to move, Potter’s hand at the small of his back now, guiding him the way the lead _ought_ to do. Draco had never let someone take the lead, and he considered fighting it, but.

But it was easier to lean into it, to follow Potter’s steps, to let the sounds of _Let It Snow_ fall over his ears and along his arms where they held against Potter’s. He was hardly breathing, just moving so carefully, slowly, not even properly to the beat. It was just him and Potter and this room with its flickering heat and they were _dancing_.

It wasn’t even half-bad dancing either. Potter had clearly had lessons since his fiasco at the Yule Ball (not that Draco had been watching then, to see Potter trip Patil over and over in clumsy attempts, no he had certainly been distracted). He was a good leader, with gentle and subtle touches to Draco’s back and they stepped together, half-way in time with the music.

Draco tried not to read into the lyrics of the song, he really did. But Potter stepped closer to him, until Draco could nearly feel the warmth of his chest mere centimeters from his own, divided only by the odd _off-ness_ of the cloak between them. He smelled of cedar wood and freshly-sipped tea and vanilla and sage and something else that Draco couldn’t quite place. Draco wanted to put his face against Potter’s shoulder and breathe in, sort out what exactly it was that he was smelling, but he stayed careful, reserved. Kept their distance. Held Potter’s hand like it was a lifeline as they whirled about the room.

Their bodies were so close. Potter's hand was warm and firm in his, a steadying grip, guiding him backwards, two steps, then left, not any proper dance but somehow their bodies seemed to move together. To know where the other would step. Harry was warm beside him, breathing picking up as they went on, and Draco matched him, step for step, breath for breath, chest to chest. 

It went on like that for another song or two. They broke from the close dance together when Celestina Warbeck’s “Nothing Like a Holiday Spell” came on, and Draco found himself laughing out loud at the feeling of Potter twisting and shimmying right along with him. He felt so light he thought he might float his whole way out the door.

“What a treat,” he said, breathless. “What a joy it’s been, Harry Potter,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief at the situation. Was it luck that had put him here? Was he still making stupid choices? Or was it fate, somehow, drawing him near in this beautiful old house full of beautiful old things with a ridiculous man who could be touched and smelled and heard but never seen.

And as he turned to go home for the night, Draco tugged the small wrapped box from his cloak. Glancing around, he put it under the tree, sparing only a moment to admire the gold wrapping and red ribbon. Hoping Potter was no longer watching him, he felt a bit like Father Christmas, tucking a gift away and dashing off into the snow before he could be caught. Once outside, he glanced back at the window. The thin white curtains were pulled aside, and the shadowy figure seemed to be waving at him, though he couldn’t be certain.

What he did know was that he was singing along to Frank Sinatra in his head, feeling utterly cheesy about it all, and more curious than ever about what exactly lay under that cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back to the last few 25 Days recs! Today I'll send you off to the lovely [shadowofrazia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowofrazia/pseuds/shadowofrazia)'s fic series _[Near To Us Once More](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830962/chapters/69173790)_ , a darling set of short fics full of beautiful Christmas-y vignettes of our Drarry, with snowfall and fluff and Christmas lights, here's one line to intrigue you, _"Harry asleep with his feet in Draco’s lap, a lovingly knit blanket draped over their legs."_ <3


	24. 'Twas The Night Before

_Monday, 24 December 2007 (Christmas Eve)_

Christmas Eve Dinner at the Manor was an appallingly boring affair, as was typical. It was boring _because_ it was typical. They had the proscribed meal with each of its carefully ordered and neatly cooked by the elf staff (led, of course, by Faline, wielding the iron spatula). There was the politely mannered _Thank you’s,_ and _Merry Christmas’s_ exchanged awkwardly across the table. And then Lucius began on one of his awful rants about the current Minister of Magic’s pro-muggleborn reforms. Though Lucius didn't live at the Manor much anymore, wasn't the house's Master, this shared dinner was one of the few battles Draco had not yet been willing to fight, either for his own cowardice, or for Narcissa's sake. It was the one time of the year they pretended like things were normal between Draco and Lucius, like all the things Draco had said didn't matter anymore.

But tonight, Draco… Well, he had had enough. In another year, on another Christmas Eve, he would have stayed sat in his chair letting Lucius go on. He and his mother would have exchanged knowing (annoyed) glances across the table, would have shaken their heads at him and tried to redirect the conversation to the _incoming snow_ or the stocks in Goblin-wrought iron rather unsuccessfully.

But this year? Draco stood up from the table, setting his napkin down, interrupting Lucius on yet another awful tirade. If he had more courage, he might have shot him down, offered the long string of logical rhetoric to negate all of the spite that Lucius had been spewing. If he had more courage, he might have stayed, and fought, and argued. But perhaps that would be another Christmas. Instead he smiled warmly at his mother, and inclined his head as his father and made an excuse to go, though they had only just begun the first dessert course.

“Must be off,” he finished, brushing invisible crumbs from his pressed Muggle suit jacket (black, and he _never_ wore black these days, always the Preservationists’ shades of navy blue). “Merry Christmas to you both,” he said, sincerely, walking over to press a kiss to his mother’s cheek.

They would find his token gifts beneath the tree, as was traditional, but he need not stick around to watch them pretend joy at opening them. It was all such a sham, such a performance for each other, no better than all the fakeness at the Ministry galas, only worse because it was in his own home, with his own family.

There was only one place he wanted to be tonight.

Draco paced through his room, tugging on a soft heather-gray sweater and a collared navy shirt, fixing his hair in the mirror with a bit of Sleakeasy’s. His hair was much softer now, shaved at the sides and curled slightly on top. _Artfully mussed_ , his mother would say with a half a smile and half a frown, rolling her eyes at the less traditional look. Out of the black suit, he felt more like himself than he had all night, but he was anxious, hands twitching over the soft wood handle of his wand to bring him calm.

He would go to Grimmauld Place. He had no idea what he would find there -- he imagined, perhaps, Weasley and Granger and Potter all sitting together around the hearth, cups of hot chocolate and candy canes and gifts and so much cheer. He would have a glance in the window before he went inside, he resolved, so as not to interrupt. 

He walked out of his room, down the great wide staircases of the Manor. The balustrade here was pretty, sure, but cold to the touch and removed from any sense of vitality. The pictures on the walls seemed gray, tired. There was no _passion_ to the awkward arches of the furniture in the sitting room, nothing exciting about it all indeed. It was furniture for the sake of furniture, and nothing more. No art or finesse, grand and beautiful as it all was.

He felt no regret as he let the huge wooden doors slam shut behind him. He wrapped his navy cloak tighter around his throat, shivering at the rapidly falling snow. The sun was just beginning to set, dropping down below the massive trees at the edge of the property, lighting up the Malfoy crest pressed into the ironwork at the gate. Draco pushed onward, towards the gate and away from the house.

He spared only one glance over his shoulder. The Manor, in all its stately splendor, was cold from the outside, dusted over with snow and lacking any flickers of light or motion in any of the windows. Draco turned his back and walked onward, pushing through the gates and letting the Malfoy crest slam shut behind him as well.

Clear of the wards, he apparated to the little alley beside Grimmauld Place and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He took a single steadying breath and stepped out of the alley. It was snowing more heavily here, thick flakes falling on his hair and shoulders. He walked up to the steps leading to Number Twelve and paused. There were only soft lights on in the parlor, the reflections of a lit Christmas tree, silvery through the curtains.

He saw a soft flutter, then. Something moving in the curtains as if it flutter at him, _Hello._

He pressed onward, wand at the door handle, and then inside. He shivered at the blast of heat that filled him when he stepped over the threshold, dusting snow from his hair. He hung the cloak over the hatstand, taking great pains to fold it into itself neatly. He wasn’t _nervous_ , per se.

The house was warm all around him, glowing on all sides as if lit by candlelight. He stepped into the parlor, where the couch was depressed as though someone were sitting in it. “Merry Christmas, Potter” he said, trying and failing to inflect his voice with a bit of edge to avoid the softness he actually felt.

He stepped over to the couch, feeling slightly bold, and hesitated just behind it. Instead of facing his hesitation, he let his hands drift over the carved wood of the back of the couch, running his fingers over the divots and turns in the dark wood, just brushing against the soft upholstery. He heard a rustling on the couch, as if Potter were turning to face him, and he quickly hid his smile, heart in his throat.

“Just been sat around all day, hmm?” he drawled teasingly, “What a way to spend Christmas.”

He took a risk then, brushing his hands ever so gently over the top edge of the upholstery. He was even nearer to what he imagined as Potter’s shoulders now, fingers mere centimeters away, he was certain. He felt the softest brush, then. Like Potter was leaning into his touch, and Draco let himself lean forward ever-so-slightly, put his hands closer. Let them rest over Potter’s shoulders, through the fabric, which was soft and cool and yet _solidly real_ all at once.

Potter pulled away and Draco gasped, then, absolutely breathless. He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath. He stepped away from the couch, pressing his hands together as if he could re-trace the feeling of Potter's shoulders firm under his fingertips. He needed to steady himself. He looked over at the tree, at the mantle, around the room, desperate for something to diffuse the burning tension in him.

“You should open your gift, Potter,” he said suddenly, the words coming too quickly from his mouth in his panic, “It’s rude to leave it unopened.”

There was a beat, during which he regretted the words, the harshness of them, though he could hardly _think_ over the staccato of his heart in his ears. Neither of them moved, and Draco realized that of course he wouldn’t open it with him here. That would expose him.

“I’ll make hot chocolate,” he said, “You must have some of that around this place.” And he turned and walked from the room (absolutely did _not_ run away).

* * *

When Draco stepped back into the parlor, two steaming cups of cocoa in each hand, he saw the little glass stag on the table. His breath caught, anxious about Potter’s reaction. A thousand thoughts filled his mind -- he had overstepped, it was too expensive, too ridiculously personal, too much of too many things. He hesitated, elbow knocking against the doorway as he debated dashing for the door.

He stepped forward anyway, feet compelled where his mind grew nervous, and set the two cups down carefully on coasters that Potter must have laid out. Draco spared only a second for a bout of gratefulness, that someone else could see how precious this table with its sleeping dragon laid like ice must be.

He only had a second, though, because light suddenly filled the room, and he found himself staring open-mouthed at the great stag, antlers nearly as tall as the room itself. He stepped towards it, hands reaching out before he could stop himself, before he could consider the appropriate decorum for _not_ touching someone else’s great Patronus.

It was cool beneath his hands, silvery and bright, and had that same soft smell of fresh wood that seemed to float about Potter. He was a gorgeous stag, inches taller than Draco, and peering at him with those bright eyes that could only remind him of Potter’s. Though it was immaterial, he could swear he could feel just the barest memory of soft fur as he ran a hand over the creature’s muzzle, over its great incorporeal nose.

His mouth fell open as he gazed at it, gazed _into_ it, and through it, and around it, feeling utterly surrounded by the creature’s light, its pureness, its goodness. It was incredible. It was overwhelming. He stumbled over to the edge of the couch and leaned against the arm of it (an act he would _never_ do usually, but this called for special circumstances). He thought he might pass out, and how ridiculous would that be?

“Incredible,” Draco whispered, though he was not sure if he was speaking to himself, to Potter, or to the stag.

He settled onto the couch blindly, without even thinking. Without taking his eyes off of the stag. It faded in a matter of minutes, and Draco was left staring awe-struck at the space where it had been, which felt suddenly so empty.

Beside him on the couch, Draco felt Potter shift closer, and he turned without thinking, to face the man he still could not see. There was an electricity between them now, more tangible than ever, as if gazing upon Potter’s Patronus had turned something in him for good. They were locked in a kind of magnetism, whose only singular logical result was barreling towards them at high speed. He felt breathless with it, knees knocking close against Potter’s, mere centimeters. He could feel it. He could smell him, so close, all wood and humanness and _near_.

“Close your eyes,” Potter said, in that same gruff voice he had used -- _had it only been weeks ago?_ \-- when Draco was stuck beneath the mistletoe. Draco shut his eyes properly this time, sitting as still as possible, not even bothering to breathe. It took so long he almost opened his eyes again to make sure Potter’s invisible presence was still there. He _knew_ he was there, could smell the wood and chocolate on his breath, could feel the sense of heat nearby.

And then the touch came. Gentle. Cautious. A simple brush of fingers against his chin that had him turning into it for more, begging for the strength of that hand to rest against his cheek. He pressed into it, heart stuttering loudly in his ears.

“I’d --er,” Potter’s voice said, but centimeters from him, and _Salazar_ , but Draco hadn’t realized he was so close, “Like to kiss you,” he finished, too quickly, awkwardly.

Draco smiled, just a little, the corner of his lips turning up at the edge. “Would you?” he drawled, just a bit of irony in his tone. He dutifully kept his eyes shut, waiting, but shifted closer, letting his knees knock against the fabric-covered man beside him. “What do you want?” Draco breathed. He could feel the ghost of Potter’s breath against his own jaw and shivered.

“Kiss me,” Harry whispered back, leaning in. “Please.”

And Draco didn’t hesitate for a second longer, moving blindly but leaning forward anyway. He pressed his lips against those soft ones, warm and hard against his, molding to his, breathing and kissing like the air came from each other and only each other. Draco didn’t dare put his hands on Potter for fear of scaring him off, didn’t dare open his eyes, not even to peek. He found that he didn’t mind so much. It didn’t matter what Potter looked like, or if he wanted his privacy. All that mattered was the warmth between them, the lips on his, Potter's hands on his face, holding him so close that it ached.

Draco lost track of time, then, somewhere between those lips against his, and then against his jaw, the point just below the ear, and he felt studied. Ravished. Potter’s scruffy bit of stubble scumbling across his chin, leaving the skin red and raw and stinging in the cool air, and it only added to the sense that Potter was taking a catalog of every inch of his skin. When Potter’s lips closed over the spot where his jaw met his neck, a pressure point he had never known he had, his mouth fell open and he had to clench his hands together to stop from reaching out, from pulling Potter even closer.

“I can’t see you?” he asked, knowing already what the answer would be.

“Plausible deniability,” Harry breathed -- and was he _Harry_ now? Draco almost laughed at the thought that they had been kissing for what felt like years (though it must have only been minutes) and yet his world felt shifted.

“Right,” Draco breathed, keeping his eyes closed. “No Harry Potter at Grimmauld Place, certainly not.” And Harry laughed at that too, and then they were kissing again, and Draco didn’t much need his eyes. He felt blind with the wanting anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For one last 25 Days rec, let me send you off to the lovely [LadderOfYears'](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladderofyears/pseuds/Ladderofyears) [advent drabbles](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035414), a series of masterworks in 100 words (seriously, LadderOfYears is drabble royalty) - each is full of soft Drarry with little snippets of Christmas joy.


	25. Morning

_Tuesday, 25 December 2007 (Christmas Day)_

Draco opened his eyes slowly, squinting in the bright morning light pouring in through the window, blinding in the way that fresh snow makes the light feel crisp and dazzling. He closed his eyes again, frowning at the wide parlor windows. Absently, he wondered when the large velvet curtains had been pulled aside and vowed to shout at Kreacher about it.

The sound of Harry’s breathing, warm and even and _so_ close to his ear settled into his consciousness next.

Draco could feel the short breaths dusting over his shoulder. His own breath stopped in his throat, chest _aching_.

He let a hand wander, ever-so-slowly, over the couch. He could feel where the fabric of his robes ended. The soft brocade of the couch, shiny and embroidered under his fingers. And just there. With more caution than he would use to hold an ancient glass vase, he let his fingers brush against the back of Harry’s hand, and settle. His palm fit there, just right, folded over the top of that soft hand, touch feather-light.

He was going to open his eyes. Just to check. The rest of the room came into view in bits and pieces as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. The fireplace in front of him, ashen white with the remains of last night’s logs. The twin wine glasses, both empty, sitting on the walnut table with the silvery dragon curled up asleep in the wood. The tree, decked with lights and golden baubles, and still glowing from when he had lit it last night. And the impression of his chin in his arm from where he had fallen asleep, where his arm lay thrown over the arm of the couch.

Draco’s gaze slid from his arm, over his lap, fabric mussed and in need of an ironing charm. He looked over to his other arm and bit back a soft, “ _Oh_.”

Harry’s warm brown skin lay in neat contrast to his pale hand. Surprised and suddenly anxious, he nearly pulled his hand away. But Harry’s turned, _just so_ , so his palm was up, and then their fingers were interlaced, and Draco was no longer breathing.

He looked up, eyes wide, and met--

Well. His breath was quite gone, wasn’t it? Draco had seen the most gorgeous stained glass, with tiny shards of green and blue and golden flecks reflecting the flickering wizard’s fire like the glass itself was moving. He had personally preserved the base of an icy jade urn with the most intricate patterns hewn into the stone like it had grown from the earth that way. None of it compared. Draco thought he could spend days studying those eyes and he would still not be able to inventory every depth.

“Merry Christmas, Draco,” Harry whispered, and Draco noticed the light flush high on his cheeks. He exhaled for the first time since seeing Harry’s hand.

Draco looked back at the hand, then to those eyes. And his lips, which had said something, that Draco was supposed to have heard.

“Hmm?” he said, intelligently. Harry blinked at him, those soft black eyelashes flickering. He was all soft around the edges, still warm and groggy with sleep.

Harry smiled, just slightly, the corner of that _gorgeous_ mouth tugging up at one end. He squeezed Draco’s hand, and Draco thought he might be having a heart attack, because it felt a bit like Harry had actually squeezed his chest. “Just,” Harry shrugged, looking a bit sheepish, “Y’know. Merry Christmas and all.”

No, no. Draco did not want him to turn those beautiful eyes away from him.

“What an honor it's been, Harry Potter,” Draco whispered, his voice thick with sleep, "What a wonder you are." He cleared his throat, feeling the warmth of embarrassment in his own cheeks.

“I’m glad you stayed, er,” Harry started, “Or. I mean, it was nice to have you here, is all.”

Draco smiled softly, shifting infinitesimally closer on the small couch. “I suppose it’s alright to see you properly and all,” he offered, staring down at their joined hands.

“I suppose,” Harry echoed, the lightness of teasing in his voice.

A silence stretched between them. Draco looked anywhere but at Harry, unsure if he would be able to control his words if he got lost in that smile again. It really was a lovely sitting room, if a bit cold. He ran his free hand over the brocade of the couch, wondering if he ought to relight the fire, and if that might diffuse some of the intensity between them.

As he started to shift, Harry pulled at his hand, drawing his attention back to that one spot.

“Wait, I--” Harry started, and stopped, frowning down at their hands. He loosened his grip, so it would be easy to tug away if Draco wanted to do so. Draco desperately _did not want to do so_. “I only meant,” he swallowed. “It’s been nice having you around here.”

“It’s alright, Potter,” Draco said quietly, “I’m nearly done, and I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. I do appreciate you showing yourself to me, though. Makes me feel a tad less crazy.”

“You aren’t crazy,” Harry whispered, voice tinged with something heavy and important. “I’ve been here all along.”

“You have, haven’t you?” Draco echoed, equally soft, and meaning so much more than the contents of the last month’s companionship.

Harry leaned forward, just so. Their shoulders were a few centimeters apart now, close enough for Draco to feel his closeness, could smell the soft sandalwood and bergamot he had come to associate with the phantom and the House. Draco shut his eyes and let himself feel lost in the smell, scenting vanilla and wood and warmth, and feeling the electricity of being so, _so_ near.

“I’d like it if you came back, maybe,” Harry mumbled. “Not just to finish the project, I mean.”

Draco looked over at him, caught in the mussed way of Harry’s curls curved over his forehead, half crushed from the couch. “I might like that too.”

Harry looked up, then, catching his eyes. They stared at one another, neither breathing.

And Draco leaned it, moving his palm from Harry’s hand to his cheek. He let his thumb brush over the soft skin, slightly stubbled at his chin, skin the color of warm walnut wood, even and firm and with depths that Draco could find himself lost among.

Harry turned, just so, and caught the pad of Draco’s thumb in his mouth. Draco let his eyes drift closed, relishing in the feeling of Harry’s lips, the tip of his tongue a shy brush, the gentle nip of teeth against his hypersensitive fingertip.

It was too much. Without realizing he had done it, Draco leaned forward, letting his forehead tilt against Harry’s, breath hot and caught in his throat. Draco could feel the brush of Harry’s curls against his forehead, could feel his warm breath against his thumb and his cheek, could feel Harry’s hand shifting to the back of Draco’s neck, warm and secure and just the right size, could feel Harry’s fingers brushing just under Draco’s collar and in the edge of his hair. He shivered, leaning just closer.

Draco opened his eyes and found himself immediately lost in Harry’s gaze once again, watching those lips parted around Draco’s thumb, as he caressed Draco’s neck, as he _breathed_ so close that Draco could feel it ghosting across his shoulder like yet another touch. Draco leaned forward, eyes flicking between his eyes and his mouth, _a question_ , and Harry surged up to meet him, letting Draco’s hand fall from his lips to cup his chin.

They kissed, hands and lips and breath warm against each other, turning just so to catch each other’s lips like they knew each other’s bodies perfectly. Draco’s hand slipped from Harry’s cheek to rest on his chest, all pretense of a clear mind gone. Draco gasped, catching his breath with his forehead against Harry’s forehead, as Harry continued to press his lips against his cheek, his chin.

It felt _glorious_. It felt _right_. It felt like _home_.

 _I beg you, if it’s not too much trouble,  
_ _point out where your shade might be  
_ _Boldly, share it, trust the light._

 _If you shut your mouth and hold your tongue  
_ _You'll throw away all the fruits of love._

 _Or if you like you may seal your lips_  
 _Provided I can share your love._  
\-- excerpts from Catullus 55, trans. Guy Lee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for joining me on this journey -- the longest fic I've ever written or shared! It's been such fun to post it through this month, and thank you to each of you who read along this month.
> 
> Thank you to the incredible onbeinganangel for all your editing and cheerleading throughout this, to gryffindorhearts for keeping me stocked in tea and reminding me to go for a walk. Thank you to Cissa and Tami for organizing this lovely fest. 
> 
> If you haven't already, please check out the [wonderful collection of 25 Days fics](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/25_Days_of_Draco_and_Harry_2020). There are so many wonderful writers I didn't get a chance to recommend this month, and so many lovely fics to read -- enjoy :)
> 
> And to all of you who have commented so far, or who may yet, thank you. May 2021 bring us all a bit more joy <3


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